D  OWN  AMONG  MEN 


!,</•///         '  s> 

WiHJbevington  Comfort 


£ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


W 


DOWN   AMONG   MEN 


Down 

Men 


BY 

WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 

AUTHOR  OF  "ROUTLBDGB  RIDES  ALONE," 
"FATE  KNOCKS  AT  THE  DOOR,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1913 
BY    GEORGE    H.    DORAN    COMPANY 


TO  THE  MEN  OF  THE  UPPER  ROOM 

.  .  .  AND  THIS  IS  THE  STORY  I  TOLD  YOU  THROUGH  THE 
SEVERAL  NIGHTS:  OF  THE  MAN  WHO  CAME  UP  THROUGH 
THE  DARK  AND  THE  FIGHTING  (OFTEN  IN  SUCH  A  RUCK 
OF  FIGHTING  THAT  PIE  COULDN'T  HEAR  VOICES)  ;  HOW 
HE  WAS  PUNISHED  BY  MEN,  BROKEN  BY  SELF,  AND  HEALED 
BY  A  WOMAN  ;  INDEED,  BUT  FOR  HER,  HE  MIGHT  HAVE 
CHOSEN  THE  LONG  WAY  OF  THE  BRUTE  TO  PUT  ON  HIS 
POWERS  AND  ATTAIN  THE  CERTAIN  ROYALTY  OF  THE 
HUMAN  ADULT  IN  THIS  YEAR  OF  OUR  LORD.  SHE  PAID 
THE  PRICE;  SHE  WAS  THE  MAN-MAKER;  SHE  SAW  THE 
WORLD-MAN  SHINING  AHEAD.  .  .  .  IT  is  A  STORY  OF 

THE  PATH  AT  OUR  FEET,  OF  THE  COMPASSIONATES  WHO 
DRAW  NEAR  TO  SPEAK,  WHEN  WE  ARE  BRAVE  ENOUGH  TO 
LISTEN,  OF  THE  WOMEN  WHO  WALK  BESIDE  US.  A  TALE 
OF  THE  ROAD  AS  WE  GO MANY  ARE  AHEAD,  MANY  BE 
HIND BUT  WE  DO  NOT  TRAVEL  THIS  STRETCH  AGAIN. 

—W.  L.  C. 


G 


KAO     LIANG 

No  one  thought  of  kao  Hang. 

Morning  did  not  mention  it  in  his  great  story;  even 
Duke  Fallows  did  not  think  of  it. 

Kao  Hang,  the  millet  of  China.  Inland  seas  of  it  are 
there,  green  in  the  beginning  of  its  flow,  dull  gold  in  its 
high  tide. 

A  ruffianly  scouring  grain.  Rice  is  its  little  white  sis 
ter.  Millet  is  the  strength  of  the  beast,  the  mash  of  the 
world's  poor.  A  hundred  millions  of  acres  of  Asia  are 
in  yield  or  waiting  for  kao  Hang  to-day.  Remember  the 
poor. 

In  Manchuria  kao  Hang  grows  strong  and  high.  Its 
fox-tails  brush  the  brows  of  the  tall  Chinese  of  the  north 
country.  It  brushed  the  caps  of  the  Russian  soldiers 
one  certain  Fall. 

The  Censurer  came  with  the  planting  in  that  year.  Kao 
Hang  was  like  a  soft  green  mould  upon  the  hills  and  val 
leys  -when  he  came  to  his  battle-fields.  He  was  watch 
ing  for  a  browner  harvest  and  a  ruddier  planting.  Fall 
plowing  and  red  planting — for  that,  he  came  to  Liaoyang. 

His  soldiers  trampled  it,  devastated  the  young  grain  with 
their  formations,  foraged  their  beasts  upon  it.  Yet  the 
millet  grew,  hardened  and  covered  the  earth — for  the 
poor  must  be  served.  Out  of  flood  and  gale  and  burn 
ing,  it  waxed  great,  filling  the  hills  and  the  hollows,  clos 
ing  in  on  the  city,  climbing  thinly  to  the  Passes. 

Its  protest  to  the  invasion  was  mute  as  China's,  but  it 
did  not  run.  Before  the  Japanese,  it  closed  in.  It  was 
ripe  when  the  brown  flanker  crossed  the  Taitse.  It 
"was  ripe  when  two  Slav  chiefs  took  their  thousands  forth 
to  form  the  anvil  upon  which  the  flanker  was  to  be 
broken.  The  Cossacks  had  been  feeding  their  beasts 
upon  it  for  many  days,  and  they  drank  in  the  deep  hol 
lows  where  the  roots  of  kao  Hang  held  the  rain.  It  was 
ripe  for  the  world's  poor,  when  the  Sentimentalist  strode 
forth  at  last — the  hammer  that  was  to  break  the  spine 
of  the  flanker. 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  ONE 


PAGE 
1 


AFIELD 

BOOK  TWO 

THE    HILL-CABIN 115 

BOOK  THREE 

THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN          ....     239 


BOOK  I 

AFIELD 


BOOK  I 

AFIELD 

i 

THE  town  of  Rosario  was  ahead.  The  cavalry  ex 
pected  to  sup  and  sleep  there.  Chance  of  firing 
presently  from  the  natives  was  pure  routine.  John 
Morning,  back  in  the  second  troop,  on  the  horse  of  a 
missing  soldier,  wondered  if  years  of  service  and  explo 
ration  would  make  him  ever  as  great  a  correspondent  as 
Mr.  Reever  Kennard  looked.  The  wide,  sloping  shoul 
ders  of  the  Personage  were  to  be  seen  occasionally  when 
the  trail  crooked,  far  forward  and  near  the  General. 

The  bit  of  fighting  was  over  before  the  rear  troopers 
got  rightly  into  the  skirmish-line  (every  fourth  trooper 
holding  four  horses)  ;  and  now  the  men  breathed  and 
smoked  cigarettes  in  one  more  Luzon  town ;  and  another 
Alcalde's  house  wras  turned  into  headquarters. 
This  was  a  brigade  expedition  of  December,  1899.  Two 
weeks  before  the  General  had  ridden  out  of  Manila. 
Various  pieces  of  infantry  had  been  left  to  garrison  the 
many  towns  which  would  not  stay  held  without  pins. 
Two  or  three  days  more,  then  Batangas,  and  the  big  ride 
was  over,  the  lower  Luzon  incision  complete,  and  drain 
age  established. 

Morning,  with  the  troopers,  had  to  look  to  his  mount 
in  regulation  fashion,  and  did  not  reach  Headquarters 
until  after  the  others.  The  Alcalde's  house  in  Rosario 
as  usual  stood  large  among  the  straw-thatched  bamboo 
huts.  The  little  upper  room  which  Morning  had  come  to 
expect  through  the  courtesy  of  the  staff,  was  easily 
found.  The  saddle-bags  and  blanket-rolls  of  Mr.  Ken 
nard  and  his  companion,  a  civilian,  named  Calvert  were 

1 


2  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

already  there,  each  in  a  corner.  Morning's  thought  was 
that  he  would  hear  these  men  talk  after  supper.  In  a 
third  corner  he  placed  his  canteen,  and  shyly  tucked  away 
in  the  shadow,  the  limp  haversack. 

There  was  a  small  table  in  the  room,  of  black  wood 
worn  shiny  by  the  hands  of  the  house,  as  the  black  wood 
of  the  floors  was  worn  shiny  by  the  bare  feet  of  servants. 
Upon  the  table  was  a  small  sheath-knife,  the  brass  han 
dle  of  which  was  inscribed  Mio  Amigo. 

It  becomes  necessary  to  explain  that  the  human  male 
is  discriminating  about  his  loot,  by  the  time  he  has  been 
afield  two  weeks  in  a  tropical  island,  especially  if  he  has 
camped  in  a  fresh  town  every  night.  The  day's  march 
makes  him  value  every  pound  that  he  can  throw  away, 
for  he  has  already  been  chafed  by  each  essential  button 
and  buckle.  A  tin  pail  of  silver  pesos  unearthed  in  a 
church  had  passed  from  hand  to  hand  among  the  soldiers. 
As  the  stress  of  the  days  increased  (and  the  artificial 
sense  of  values  narrowed  to  the  fundamentals  such  as 
food  and  tobacco  and  sleep),  Morning  had  observed  with 
curious  approval  that  the  silver  hoard  leaked  out  of  the 
command  entirely — to  return  to  the  natives  for  further 
offerings  to  the  priests. 

So  the  knife  on  the  table  aroused  no  desire.  It  was 
not  even  a  good  knife,  but  Mio  Amigo  took  his  eye,  as 
if  affording  a  bit  of  insight  to  the  native  mind.  It  could 
not  have  been  wanted  by  Mr.  Kennard  or  Mr.  Calvert, 
since  it  lay  upon  the  table.  Morning  put  it  in  his  coat, 
knowing  he  would  toss  it  away  before  to-morrow's  sun 
was  high.  In  his  hot  moist  hand  the  brass-handle  sent 
up  a  smell  of  verdigris.  A  little  later  in  the  village  road, 
he  encountered  Mr.  Reever  Kennard  in  the  act  of  pur 
chasing  ancient  canned  stuff  from  a  native-woman,  too 
lame  to  run  before  the  cavalry.  Morning  was  not  natural 
in  the  Presence. 

The  great  man  was  broad  and  round  and  thick.  He 
criticised  generals  afield,  and  in  Washington  when  times 


AFIELD  3 

were  dry.  He  had  dined  with  the  President  and  signed 
the  interview.  His  head  dropped  forward  slightly,  his 
chin  sunk  in  its  own  cushions.  He  bought  the  native 
wares  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  keeping  a  city  in 
suspense,  and  the  city  deserves  it.  Morning  stood  by  and 
did  not  speak.  There  was  no  reason  for  him  to  stay; 
he  did  not  expect  companionship ;  he  had  nothing  to  say ; 
no  money  with  wkich  to  buy  food — and  yet,  having  estab 
lished  himself  there,  he  could  not  withdraw  without  re 
mark  of  some  kind.  At  least  he  felt  this ;  also  he  felt 
cruelly  the  cub.  He  was  at  home  in  this  service  with 
packers  and  enlisted  men,  but  always  as  now,  officers, 
and  others  of  his  own  work,  made  him  feel  the  upstart. 

Mr.  Kennard  now  turned  to  perceive  him,  his  eyes 
opening  in  the  "Bless  me — what  sort  is  this  ?"  manner  of 
the  straying  Englishman ;  and  John  Morning,  quite  in  a 
funk,  fell  to  enforcing  an  absurd  interest  in  the  native 
sheath-knife.  Kennard  was  not  drawn  to  such  a  slight 
affair,  but  perceiving  the  menial  in  Morning,  allowed 
him  to  carry  some  of  his  purchases  back  to  Headquarters. 

Supper  was  a  serious  matter  to  the  boy.  He  had  no 
money  nor  provisions.  In  the  usual  case,  money  would 
have  been  no  good — but  there  were  a  few  things  left  in 
the  shop  of  the  lame  woman.  The  field  ration  was  light ; 
and  while  he  would  not  go  hungry  if  the  staff-officers 
knew,  it  was  a  delicate  matter  to  make  known  his  grub- 
less  state.  Morning  rambled  over  the  town,  after  help 
ing  Mr.  Kennard  to  quarters,  and  returned  empty  to  the 
upper  room.  Mr.  Calvert  was  there  and  appeared  to  see 
Morning  for  the  first  time.  Calvert  was  a  slender  quiet 
chap,  and  believed  in  what  he  had  to  say. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  little  sheath-knife  you 
showed  Mr.  Kennard?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Morning  sickened  before  the  man's  eyes.  His  life 
had  been  fought  out  in  dark,  rough  places.  He  was  as 
near  twenty  as  twenty-five.  He  had  the  way  of  the 
under-dog,  who  does  not  expect  to  be  believed,  looking 


4  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

for  the  worst  of  it,  whether  guilty  or  not.    He  told  Cal- 
vert  he  had  found  the  knife  on  this  table. 

"I  thought  I  put  it  in  my  saddle-bags,"  Calvert  said. 
"You  are  very  welcome  to  it.    The  Mia  Amiga  made 

me  look  at  it  twice " 

"That's  why  I  wanted  it.    Take  this  for  your  trouble'/' 
Calvert  placed  a  bit  of  paper  money  on  the  table  be 
tween  them. 

"It  was  no  trouble.  I  don't  want  the  money." 
"Take  it  along.  Don't  think  of  it  again." 
Morning  didn't  want  to  appear  stubborn.  This  was 
the  peculiarity  of  the  episode.  The  thought  of  taking 
the  money  repelled  him.  The  connection  of  the  money 
with  supper  occurred,  but  not  with  the  strength  of  his 
dislike  to  appear  perverse  or  bad-tempered.  .  .  .  He 
saw  all  clearly  after  he  had  accepted  the  paper,  but  the 
matter  was  then  closed.  He  was  very  miserable.  He  had 
proved  his  inferiority.  The  little  brush  with  big  men 
had  been  too  much  for  him.  He  belonged  among  the 
enlisted.  .  .  . 

He  went  to  the  lame  woman  and  bought  a  bottle  of 
pimientos  and  a  live  chicken.  The  latter  he  traded  for 
a  can  of  bacon  with  a  soldier. 


IMPERIAL  HOTEL,  Tokyo,  early  in  March,  1904. 
.  .  .  The  Japanese  war  office  had  finally  decided 
to  permit  six  American  correspondents  to  accompany 
each  army.  The  Americans  heard  the  news  with  gravity. 
There  were  two  men  for  every  place.  Only  three  Jap 
anese  armies  were  in  conception  at  this  time.  The  first 
six  Americans  were  easily  chosen — names  of  men  that 
allowed  no  doubt ;  and  this  initial  group,  beside  being  the 
first  to  take  the  field,  was  elected  to  act  as  a  committee 
to  appoint  the  second  and  third  sets  of  six — twelve  places 
and  thirty  waiting.  The  work  at  hand  was  delicate. 


AFIELD  5 

The  committee  was  in  session  in  the  room  of  Mr. 
Reever  Kennard.  Five  of  the  second  list  had  been  set 
tled  upon  when  the  name  of  John  Morning  (of  the  Open 
Market)  was  brought  up.  It  was  Duke  Fallows  of  San 
Francisco,  who  spoke: 

"I  don't  know  John  Morning,  but  I  know  his  stuff. 
It's  big  stuff ;  he's  the  big  man.  We've  gone  too  far  with 
out  him  already.  He  has  more  right  to  be  on  the  com 
mittee  than  I.  He  was  here  before  I  was.  He  has 
minded  his  own  business  and  taken  quarters  apart.  I  had 
no  intention  of  breaking  into  the  picture  this  way,  but 
the  fact  is,  I  expected  John  Morning  to  go  in  first  on  the 
second  list.  Now  that  there  is  only  one  place  left,  there 
really  can't  be  any  doubt  about  the  name." 

Mr.  Reever  Kennard  of  the  World-News  now  arose 
and  waited  for  silence.  He  got  it.  The  weight  of  Mr. 
Reever  Kennard  was  felt  in  this  room.  Everything  in 
it  had  weight — saddle  and  leggings  of  pigskin,  gaunt 
lets,  typewriters,  cameras,  the  broadside  of  riding- 
breeches,  and  a  little  arsenal  of  modern  inventions  which 
only  stop  firing  upon  formal  request.  Without  his  hat, 
Mr.  Reever  Kennard  was  different,  however.  Much 
weight  that  you  granted  under  the  big  hat,  had  left  that 
arid  country  for  the  crowded  arteries  of  neck  and  jowl 
and  jaw,  or,  indeed,  for  the  belted  cosmic  center  itself. 
He  said: 

"Mr.  Fallows  talks  wide.  This  Morning  is  out  on  a 
shoe-string;  and  while  he  may  have  a  bit  of  force  to  han 
dle  certain  kinds  of  action,  it  isn't  altogether  luck — his 
not  getting  a  good  berth.  The  young  man  hasn't  made 
good  at  home.  He  hasn't  the  money  backing  to  stand 
his  share  of  the  expense.  The  War  Office  suggests  that 
each  party  of  correspondents  employ  a  sutler " 

Fallows  was  still  standing  and  broke  in: 

"I'm  interested  in  that  matter  of  making  good  at 
home.  I've  seen  the  work  of  most  Americans  here,  and 
I  believe  John  Morning  to  be  the  best  war-writer  sent 


6  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

out  from  the  States.  As  for  the  shoe-string,  I'll  furnish 
his  tooth-brush  and  dinnercoat — if  the  sutler  insists " 

"We  understand  very  clearly  the  enthusiasm  of  Mr. 
Fallows  who  wants  a  second  column-man  for  his  paper. 
Doubtless  this  Morning  is  open " 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it,  but  certainly  the  Western 
States  would  profit,  if  John  Morning  turned  part  of  his 
product  there.  How  about  your  World-News  on  that?" 

"I  favor  Mr.  Borden  for  the  sixth  place  in  second 
column,"  Kennard  said  simply. 

"Borden  reached  Tokyo  three  weeks  after  Morning — 
and  never  campaigned  before." 

"He's  one  of  the  best  of  the  younger  men  in  New 
York — a  Washington  correspondent  of  big  influence " 

"I  have  no  objection  to  him,  except  as  one  to  take  the 
place  that  belongs  to  John  Morning.  I  can't  see  him 
there." 

Kennard  looked  about  him.  Morning  was  not  well 
known,  having  been  little  seen  at  the  Imperial  in  the  last 
six  weeks.  Fallows  had  not  helped  him  by  saying  he 
was  the  best  war-writer  sent  out  from  the  States;  still 
in  a  general  way  he  could  not  be  put  aside.  Kennard 
saw  this. 

"I  wasn't  going  to  hurt  Morning  badly,  if  I  could  help 
it,"  he  said,  "but  Mr.  Fallows  has  rather  forced  it.  This 
Morning  isn't  straight.  We  caught  him  stealing  a 
sheath-knife  from  the  saddle-bags  of  Archibald  Calvert 
down  in  Luzon  four  or  five  years  ago.  Morning  said  he 
found  it  on  a  table  in  the  room  assigned  to  us.  He  took 
money  from  Calvert  for  restoring  the  knife." 

Fallows  laughed  at  this. 

"I  can't  believe  the  story,"  he  said.  "The  man  who 
did  the  stuff  I've  read,  isn't  stealing  sheath-knives  from 
another's  saddle-bags.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  it 
didn't  seem  true  to  you,  Kennard " 

Kennard  had  waited  for  the  last,  and  was  not  good 
to  look  at  until  it  came.  He  turned  quickly  to  the  others. 
Borden  was  chosen. 


AFIELD  7 

"You've  still  got  a  place  to  fill  in  the  first  list,"  said 
Fallows. 

The  committee  was  now  excited.  The  fire  faces 
turned  to  the  Westerner. 

"I  repeat,  Kennard,  that  your  remarks  may  be  within 
the  letter  of  truth,  but  I  wouldn't  campaign  in  the  same 
army  with  a  man  who'd  bring  up  a  thing  like  that  against 
a  boy — and  five  years  afterward.  Understand,  I  have 
never  spoken  a  word  to  John  Morning " 

"You're  not  giving  up  your  place?"  said  the  com 
mittee. 

"Exactly." 

"Then  you'll  take  Borden's  with  the  second ?" 

"I  have  nothing  against  Borden.  I  wouldn't  spoil 
the  chance  of  a  man  already  chosen." 

"Then  first  with  the  third  army,"  urged  the  com 
mittee. 

"I  can  do  better  than  that,"  said  Fallows.  "Gentle 
men,  I  thank  you,  and  beg  to  withdraw." 


JOHN  MORNING  waved  back  the  rickshaw  coolie  at 
the  door  of  the  little  Japanese  Inn,  where  he  had 
been  having  his  own  way  for  several  weeks,  and  walked 
down  the  Shiba  road  toward  the  Imperial  hotel.  He  had 
half-expected  to  get  on  the  committee,  which  meant  work 
with  the  first  army  and  a  quick  start ;  failing  in  that,  he 
looked  for  his  name  to  be  called  early  in  the  second  list, 
and  was  on  the  way  now  to  find  out.  Morning  shared 
the  passion  of  the  entire  company  to  get  afield  at  any 
cost. 

Reasoning,  however,  did  not  lift  his  restlessness  and 
apprehension.  He  had  not  been  on  the  spot.  He  had 
been  unable  to  afford  life  at  the  Imperial;  and  yet,  the 
costliness  of  it  was  not  altogether  vain,  since  the  old 


8  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

hotel  had  become  a  center  of  the  world  in  the  matter  of 
war-correspondence.  Japan  reckoned  with  it  as  the  point 
of  foreign  civilian  force.  While  his  brain  could  not  or 
ganize  a  condition  that  would  spoil  his  chance,  Morn 
ing's  more  unerring  inner  sense  warned  him  that  he  was 
not  established,  as  he  walked  in  the  rain. 

His  name  was  not  posted  in  any  of  the  three  groups. 
The  card  blurred  after  his  first  devouring  glance,  so  that 
he  had  to  read  again  and  a  third  time.  For  a  moment 
he  was  out  of  hand — seething,  eruptive.  Yet  there  was 
nothing  to  fight.  .  .  . 

Corydon  Tait,  a  young  Englishman  with  whom  he 
had  often  talked  and  laughed,  was  standing  by.  Tait's 
name  was  not  down.  Morning  controlled  himself  to 
speak  courteously. 

The  Englishman  looked  beyond  him  at  the  card.  A 
chill  settled  upon  Morning's  self-destructive  heat.  This 
was  new  in  his  world.  In  the  momentary  misunderstand 
ing,  he  grasped  Tait's  arm. 

"Really,  old  chap,  I'd  prefer  you  not  to  do  that,"  the 
other  said,  drawing  his  arm  away.  "It  must  be  plain 
that  I  don't  know  you." 

"I  thought  you  were  joking,"  said  Morning. 


BACK  on  Shiba  Road  in  the  beginning  of  dusk,  he 
turned  to  the  native  inn.  The  door  slid  open  be 
fore  his  hand  touched  the  latch;  his  figure  having  been 
seen  through  the  papered  lattice.  The  proprietor  bowed 
to  the  matting  and  hissed  with  prolonged  seriousness, 
hissed  in  fact  until  the  American  had  removed  and  ex 
changed  his  shoes  for  sandals.  The  hand-maidens  ap 
peared  and  bowed  laughingly.  The  old  kitchen  drudge 
emerged  from  her  chimney  and  ogled.  The  mother  of 
the  house  took  the  place  beside  her  lord  on  the  rostrum- 


AFIELD  9 

of-the-peneils.  She  did  not  hiss,  but  it  was  very  clear 
that  the  matting  under  the  white  man's  feet  was  far 
above  her  in  worthiness. 

There  was  something  of  this  formality  with  his  every 
entrance.  Morning  had  felt  silly  during  the  first  days 
as  he  passed  through  the  hedge  of  bent  backs ;  the  empty 
cringing  and  favor-groveling  had  seemed  indecent.  But 
now  (in  the  dusk  of  the  house  before  the  candles)  a 
faint  touch  of  healing  came  from  it.  They  had  all  served 
him.  He  had  been  fearfully  over-served.  They  had 
bothered  his  work  through  excessive  service — so  many 
were  the  hands  and  so  little  to  do.  The  women  were 
really  happy  to  work  for  him.  To-night,  a  queer  glad 
ness  clung  to  their  welcome.  He  had  fallen  indeed  to 
sense  it.  He  was  starving  for  reality,  for  some  holy 
thing.  They  had  stripped  him  at  the  Imperial.  In  his 
heart  he  was  trying  to  make  a  reality  now  of  this  mock 
ery  of  Japanese  self-extinction. 

The  bath-boy,  wet  from  steam,  with  only  a  loin-cloth 
about  him,  followed  Morning  to  his  room.  The  Ameri 
can  was  not  allowed  to  bathe  alone ;  would  not  have  been 
allowed  to  undress  himself,  had  he  not  insisted  upon  the 
privilege.  He  sat  in  a  tub,  three  walls  of  which  were 
wood  and  the  fourth  of  iron.  Against  the  oustide  of 
the  latter,  burned  a  furious  fire  of  charcoal.  For  the 
benefits  of  this  bath,  he  was  begged  to  make  no  haste 
and  to  occupy  his  mind  with  matters  of  the  higher  life. 
A  moment  or  two  before  the  water  reached  a  boiling- 
point,  Morning  was  allowed  to  escape.  Exceeding  pres 
sure  of  business  was  occasionally  accepted  as  precluding 
the  chance  of  a  bath  for  one  day,  but  to  miss  two  days 
in  succession,  without  proving  that  he  had  bathed  else 
where,  meant  a  loss  of  respect,  and  a  start  of  household 
whispering. 

He  was  sick  to  get  back  to  work,  turned  to  it  for 
restoration  and  forgetfulness,  as  a  man  to  a  drug.  More 
over,  there  was  need,  for  he  was  on  space.  Two  or  three 


io  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

papers  in  the  Mid-west  used  what  he  could  write,  though 
he  had  no  holding  contracts,  and  had  left  Chicago  with 
such  haste  to  catch  a  steamer,  that  there  had  been  no 
chance  to  make  an  arrangement,  whereby  these  papers 
might  have  used  the  same  story  simultaneously.  And 
then,  there  had  been  a  delay  of  nearly  a  day  in  Van 
couver.  This  time  in  Chicago  would  have  been  enough 
for  the  establishment  of  a  central  office  and  an  agent  on 
percentage,  who  could  have  enlarged  his  market  without 
limit,  and  cut  down  his  work  to  one  letter  a  day.  In 
stead,  he  did  the  same  story  now,  from  three  different 
angles.  It  had  been  this  way  before.  With  war  in  the 
air,  Morning  was  unable  to  breathe  at  home.  Off  he 
went,  without  a  return  ticket — tourist  cars  and  dingy 
second-class  steamer  passage — but  with  a  strange  confi 
dence  in  his  power  to  write  irresistibly.  It  was  like  a 
mark — this  faith  of  his  in  the  ability  to  appeal. 

All  his  life  he  had  lived  second-class.  To-night  he 
wondered  if  it  would  always  be  so ;  if  there  was  not 
something  in  the  face  of  John  Morning,  something  that 
others  saw  at  once,  which  placed  him  instantly  among 
culls  and  seconds  in  the  mysterious  adjustments  of  the 
world.  They  had  made  him  feel  so  at  the  Imperial,  be 
fore  this  episode.  Men  who  didn't  write  ten  lines  a  day 
were  there  on  big  incomes ;  and  others,  little  older  than 
he,  with  only  two  or  three  fingers  of  his  ability,  on  a 
safe  salary  and  flexible  expense  account. 

The  day  was  brought  back  to  him  again  and  again. 
The  cut  of  Corydon  Tait  had  crippled  him.  He  felt  it 
now  crawling  swiftly  along  the  nerves  of  his  limbs  until 
it  reached  his  brain,  and  remaining  there  coldly  like  un 
digested  matter  in  a  sick  body.  He  felt  his  face  queerly. 
There  was  neither  fat  nor  flabbiness  upon  it.  He  could 
feel  the  bone.  His  fingers  brushed  his  mouth,  and  a  sort 
of  burn  came  to  him.  It  was  the  finest  thing  about  John 
Morning.  There  was  a  bit  of  poetry  about  it,  a  touch 
of  tenderness,  finer  than  strength.  Passion  was  in  the 
mouth,  intensity  without  intentness,  not  a  trace  of  the 


AFIELD  n 

bearish,  nor  bovine.  It  is  true  you  often  see  the  ruin 
of  such  a  mouth  in  quiet  places  where  those  of  drugs 
and  drinks  are  served ;  but  you  see  as  well  the  finished 
picture  upon  the  faces  of  those  men  lit  with  world's 
service,  who  have  heard  the  voice  of  the  human  spirit, 
and  are  loved  by  the  race,  because  they  have  forgotten 
how  to  love  themselves. 

Morning  knew  it  only  as  his  weakness.  It  was  the 
symbol  to-night  of  his  failure.  .  .  .  Those  at  the 
Imperial  had  seen  it ;  they  had  dared  to  deny  him  because 
of  it.  The  greatest  among  the  war-men  were  thin-lipped 
and  sinewy-jawed — the  soldier  face.  .  .  .  He  knew 
much  about  war;  none  had  campaigned  more  joyously 
than  he.  In  the  midst  of  peril,  courage  seemed  altogether 
obvious  and  easy;  his  fearlessness  was  too  natural 
for  him  to  be  surprised  at  it,  though  it  surprised 
others.  .  .  . 

The  typewriter  buzzed  on.  Wearily  he  caught  up  the 
trend,  but  the  drive  was  gone,  although  there  was  hardly 
a  lull  in  the  registering  of  the  keys  for  two-thirds  of  a 
page.  Always  before,  this  sort  of  hackwork  had  been 
done  with  a  dream  of  the  field  ahead.  His  forces 
fused.  He  had  been  denied  a  column.  His  hand 
brushed  across  his  face  and  John  Morning  was  ashamed 
— ashamed  of  his  poverty,  of  his  work,  of  his  own  nature, 
which  made  a  tragedy  of  the  cut  of  Corydon  Tait ; 
ashamed  of  the  heat  in  his  veins  from  the  stimulants  he 
had  drunk;  ashamed  because  he  had  not  instantly  de 
manded  his  rights  at  the  Imperial;  ashamed  of  the  mess 
of  a  man  he  was,  a  fool  of  his  volition  and  vitality,  com 
monness  stamped  on  his  every  feature. 

Morning's  affinity  for  alcohol  was  peculiar.  He 
worked  with  it  successfully.  So  resilient  was  his  health 
that  he  was  usually  fresh  in  the  morning.  Often  he 
had  finished  a  long  evening  of  work  on  pretty  good  terms 
with  himself,  the  later  pages  of  copy  coming  in  a  cloud 
of  speed.  .  .  .  The  copy-producing  seemed  to  use 
up  the  whipping  spirit,  rather  than  himself ;  at  least,  he 


12  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

treasured  this  illusion.  The  first  bottles  of  rice-beer 
lasted  the  longest.  .  .  .  He  recalled  now  that  the 
maid-servants  had  twice  heated  sake  for  him  at  supper ; 
as  for  the  rice-beer  he  had  been  more  than  ever  thirsty 
to-night.  He  glanced  into  the  corner  where  the  bottles 
were  and  a  sense  of  uncleanness  came  over  him — as  if 
his  body  were  flowing  with  the  slow  spirit,  like  a  sea- 
marsh  at  high  tide. 

.  .  .  He  heard  the  shafts  of  a  rickshaw  grate  upon 
the  gravel  outside.  Amoya  had  come ;  it  was  midnight. 
He  opened  the  papered  lattice.  The  runner  was  bowing 
by  his  cart,  holding  his  broad  hat  with  both  hands. 
Morning  covered  his  machine,  put  fresh  charcoal  in  the 
brazier,  caught  up  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  shuffled 
down  the  stairway,  holding  his  slippers  on  with  his  toes. 
The  door-boy  gave  him  his  shoes  and  opened  the  way 
to  the  street.  Morning  greeted  Amoya  with  a  pat  on  the 
shoulder,  and  climbed  into  the  cart. 

"Yoshuwara?"  the  runner  asked. 

"No,  you  shameless  ruffian !" 

"No?"  Amoya  squeaked  pleasantly. 

"No — not — no  must  do." 

Morning  waved  his  arm,  signifying  solitary  and 
peaceful  enjoyment  of  the  night  air  and  contemplation 
of  the  dark  city.  These  night  journeys  had  become  the 
cooling  features  of  his  day.  Amoya  was  a  living  mar 
vel,  the  rickshaw  runner  incomparable — tireless,  eager, 
very  proud  of  his  work;  too  old  to  be  spoiled.  He  was 
old ;  indeed,  enough  to  be  Morning's  father,  but  his  limbs 
were  young,  and  his  great  trunk  full  of  power  unabated. 

The  night  was  dark,  damp,  no  moon  nor  star.  The 
cold  which  was  almost  tempted  thinly  to  crust  the  open 
drains,  was  welcome  to  the  man's  nostrils.  Amoya 
warmed  and  gathered  speed.  Up  the  broad  Shiba  Road 
he  sped,  past  the  far  dim  lights  of  the  highway,  past 
Shiba  temple,  the  tombs  of  the  Ronins,  past  the  cavalry 
barracks  (by  far  the  best  joke  on  Japan),  and  the  last  of 
the  known  land-marks. 


AFIELD  13 

Now  Morning  suffered  strange  temptations.  Few 
white  men  who  have  lived  any  time  in  Japan  have  es 
caped.  A  Japanese  house  with  every  creature  comfort 
was  within  his  resources  even  now ;  wholesome  food, 
sake,  rice-beer  were  cheap ;  excellent  service,  even  such 
service  as  Amoya's  was  laughably  cheap.  Why  not  sink 
into  this  life  and  quit  the  agony?  .  .  .  Why  did  he 
think  of  it  as  sinking  into  this  life?  Why  did  he  agonize 
anyway  ?  .  .  .  There  \vas  always  a  fresh  sore  on  him 
somewhere.  Surely  other  men  did  not  burn  back  and 
forth  every  day  as  he  did. 

The  shame  came  again.  He  ordered  Amoya  back 
within  an  hour,  left  him  at  the  door  of  the  Inn,  drenched 
with  sweat  and  delighted  with  his  extra  fare. 

Morning  slid  open  the  door  of  his  room.  Nothing 
could  be  seen  but  the  glow  of  the  brazier,  yet  he  knew 
some  one  was  within.  ...  A  series  of  mattresses 
and  robes  had  been  taken  out  from  a  chest  of  drawers 
and  made  up  on  the  matting.  The  women  as  usual,  had 
waited  for  him  to  go  out.  He  lit  the  lamp. 

A  little  Japanese  maid-servant  was  curled  up  asleep 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  Morning  sat  down  upon  the 
cushion  and  mused  curiously.  ...  It  was  thus  that 
Naomi  had  ordered  Ruth  to  steal  into  the  couch  at  the 
feet  of  Boaz.  Ruth  had  found  a  home,  and  was  not 
long  allowed  to  make  herself  glad  with  mere  gleanings. 
.  .  .  It  was  this  sort  of  thing  that  made  Morning  hate 
Japan.  In  the  eyes  of  the  old,  limp-backed  Inn-keeper, 
this  child  was  a  woman.  He  would  not  have  dared  to 
delegate  a  mere  maid-servant  to  ply  the  ancient  art  with 
his  guest,  but  there  were  extenuations  here:  the  delicacy 
and  subtlety  of  the  little  one's  falling  asleep,  and  the 
child-like  freshness  of  the  offering.  It  was  this  last  that 
stung  Morning,  because  he  knew  the  old  Japanese  found 
a  commercial  value  in  this  very  adolescence. 

He  had  smiled  at  this  child  during  the  day,  and  asked 
her  name — Moto-san — and  repeated  it  after  her,  r.s  one 
might  have  done  the  name  of  a  child.  She  had  just  come 


i4  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

in  from  the  fields,  reported  the  bath-boy  who  preempted 
any  leakage  of  English  whatsoever,  and  who  was  fre 
quently  on  the  verge  of  being  understood.  .  .  .  Her 
hands  showed  labor,  and  she  was  not  ashen  as  the  Japan 
ese  beauties  must  be,  but  sweet  and  fragrant — and  so 
little. 

"It  is  the  same  the  world  over,  when  they  come  in 
from  the  fields,"  he  said.  "Good  God,  she  ought  to  be 
sleeping  with  her  dolls.  .  .  .  Poor  little  bit  of  a  girl 
in  a  man's  country  .  .  .  and  they  sent  you  in  here  to 
keep  me  from  night-riding.  One  cannot  complain  of 
hospitality  .  .  .  Moto-san.  .  .  .  Moto-san.  .  ." 

She  stirred,  and  snuggled  deeper.  "She  is  truly 
asleep,"  he  thought. 

"Moto-san  !"  he  said  softly  again. 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes,  which  suddenly  filled  with 
fright.  Morning  patted  her  shoulder  gently.  And  now 
she  sat  up  staring  at  him,  and  remembering. 

He  leaned  his  head  upon  his  palm  and  shut  his  eyes — 
sign  of  falling  asleep — then  pointed  her  to  the  door.  .  . 
Morning  could  not  tell  if  she  were  pleased.  It  all  seemed 
very  strange  to  her — her  smile  was  frightened.  He  re 
peated  the  gesture.  She  had  slid  off  the  bed  to  the  mat 
ting  upon  her  knees,  facing  him.  And  now  she  bowed 
to  the  floor,  and  backed  out  so,  bowing  with  frightened 
smile.  .  .  .  He  reflected  dismally  that  she  had  lost 
value  for  the  eye  of  the  Inn-keeper. 


MORNING'S  idea  as  he  reached  the  Imperial  next 
forenoon  was  to  call  the  committee  together,  or  a 
working  part  of  it,  and  to  demand  why  he  had  been  barred 
from  the  projected  columns.  .  .  .  The  high  and  an 
cient  lobby  was  practically  empty.  It  appeared  that  the 
correspondents  de  rigeur  and  en  masse  were  posing  for 
a  photograph  on  the  rear  balcony,  which  was  reached 


AFIELD  15 

through  the  billiard  room.  Morning  went  there  and 
stood  by  the  window  while  the  picture  was  taken.  It  re 
quired  an  hour  or  more.  He  was  passed  and  re-passed. 
Two  or  three  Americans  seemed  on  the  point  of  asking 
him  to  take  his  place  with  the  fifty  odd  war-men,  but  they 
checked  themselves  before  speaking.  Morning  felt  vilely 
marked.  Stamina  did  not  form  within  him.  He  did  not 
realize  that  something  finer  than  physical  courage  was 
challenged. 

He  watched  the  backs  of  the  formation — the  squared 
shoulders,  the  planted  feet.  He  knew  that  in  the  minds  of 
the  posing  company,  each  was  looking  at  his  own.  From 
each  individual  to  his  lesser  or  greater  circle,  the  finished 
picture  would  go.  It  would  be  reproduced  in  the  period 
icals  which  sent  these  men — "our  special  correspondent" — 
designated.  Personal  friends  in  each  case  would  choose 
their  own  from  the  crowd.  The  little  laughing  chap  in 
brown  corduroys  who  arranged  the  group  was  the  best 
and  bravest  man  in  field  photography.  He  left  the  cam 
era  now  to  his  assistant,  and  took  place  with  the  others. 
Men  of  twenty  campaigns  were  there.  The  dim  eyes  of 
a  certain  little  old  man  had  looked  upon  more  of  war  than 
any  other  living  human  being.  In  one  brain  or  another, 
pictures  were  coiled  from  every  campaign  around  the 
world  during  the  past  forty  years.  Never  before  in  his 
tory  had  so  many  famous  war-men  gathered  together.  It 
would  be  a  famous  picture.  .  .  .  He,  John  Morn 
ing,  would  hear  it  in  the  future: 

".     .     .     Why  weren't  you  in  that  picture?" 

"I  sat  in  the  billiard  room  behind  at  a  window.  I 
had  been  barred  out  of  a  place  among  the  first  three 
columns.  I  was  under  a  cloud  of  some  kind." 

No,  that  would  not  be  his  answer.  Various  lies  oc 
curred. 

This  little  mental  activity  completed  itself  without 
any  volition.  It  was  finished  now,  like  the  picture  out 
side — the  materials  scattering.  The  idea  of  the  truth 
merely  appeared  through  a  mental  habit  of  looking  at 


1 6  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

two  sides — a  literary  habit.  It  had  brought  no  direct 
relation  to  John  Morning.  But  the  lies  had  brought 
their  direct  relation. 

He  could  not  remain  at  his  place  by  the  window,  now 
that  the  fifty  came  in  for  drink  and  play.  He  was  afraid 
to  demand  what  evil  concerning  him  was  in  the  minds  of 
men ;  afraid  something  would  be  uncovered  that  was 
true.  He  felt  the  uncleanness  of  drink  upon  him,  and  a 
moral  softening  from  years  of  newspaper  work,  a  train 
ing  begun  in  glibness,  which  does  not  recognize  the 
rights  of  men,  but  obeys  a  City  Desk.  He  could  not 
organize  a  contending  force ;  and  yet  loathed  the  thought 
of  return  to  the  Japanese  Inn.  He  was  not  ready  to  face 
himself  alone. 

It  had  never  come  to  him  so  stirringly  as  now — the 
sense  of  something  within,  utterly  weary  of  imprison 
ment  and  forced  companionship  with  the  visible  John 
Morning.  His  misery  was  a  silent  unswerving  shame. 
A  feverish  impulse  almost  controlled  him  to  take  some 
thing  either  to  lift  him  away,  or  permit  him  to  sink  in 
abandonment  from  the  area  of  pain. 

lie  stood  near  the  desk  in  the  lobby.  Duke  Fallows 
was  coming.  The  Californian's  legs,  in  their  worn  cor 
duroys,  were  far  too  lean  for  the  big  bony  knees — a  tall 
man  of  forty,  with  tired  and  sunken  eyes  and  sunken 
mouth.  Fallows  had  a  reputation.  Its  strongly  drawing 
side-issue  was  his  general  and  encompassing,  though  fas 
tidious,  love  of  women.  Someone  had  whispered  that 
even  if  a  man  has  the  heart  of  a  volcano,  its  outpouring 
must  be  spread  rather  thin  in  places  to  cover  all  women. 
He  was  out  for  the  Western  States,  not  only  to  show 
war,  but  to  show  it  up.  Certainly  he  loved  the  under 
dog,  which  is  an  epigram  for  stating  that  he  was  an  anar 
chist. 

No  anarchist  could  be  gentler  to  meet,  nor  more  ter 
rible  to  read.  Fallows  owned  a  formidable  interest  in  the 
Western  States;  otherwise  he  would  have  had  to  print 


AFIELD  17 

himself.  The  rest  of  that  San  Francisco  property  was 
just  an  excellent  newspaper.  Its  effort  was  to  balance 
Duke  Fallows ;  sometimes  it  seemed  trying  to  extinguish 
him  in  order  to  save  itself.  It  brought  sanity  and  com 
mon-sense  and  the  group-souled  observation  of  affairs, 
to  say  nothing  of  news  and  advertising — all  to  cool  the 
occasional  column  of  this  sick  man.  To  a  few,  however, 
on  the  Pacific  Coast,  since  his  new  assignment  was  an 
nounced — the  Russo-Japanese  war  and  Duke  Fallows 
meant  the  same  thing.  The  majority  said :  "Watch  the 
Western  States  boom  in  circulation.  They  are  sending 
Fallows  to  Asia." 

The  two  stood  together,  Fallows  looking  down. 
Morning  was  broad  in  brow  and  shoulder ;  slender  other 
wise  and  of  medium  height. 

"I'm  Fallows." 

"Yes." 

The  tall  man's  eyes  turned  upward  so  that  only  the 
whites  were  visible.  He  fingered  his  brow  as  if  to  pluck 
something  forth  through  the  bone. 

"Come  on  upstairs." 

Morning  followed  the  large,  slow  knees.  It  was  less 
that  the  knees  wobbled — rather  the  frailty  of  the  hang 
ings  and  pinnings.  They  did  the  three  high  flights  and 
began  again,  finally  drawing  up  in  a  broad  roof-room 
that  smelled  of  new  harness  and  overlooking  an  espe 
cially  hard-packed  part  of  Tokyo,  toward  the  Ginza. 
Fallows  lit  the  fire  that  was  ready  in  the  grate  and 
sprawled  wearily. 

"Where  did  you  study  religion,  Morning?" 

"I  didn't." 

"That's  one  way  to  get  it." 

The  sound  of  his  own  laugh  came  to  Morning's  ears 
and  hurt  him.  Fallows'  eyes  were  shut.  There  was  no 
trace  of  a  smile  around  the  wan  mouth. 

"You'll  likely  be  more  religious  before  you're  done. 
I  mean  many  things  by  being  religious — a  man's  inability 


1 8  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

to  lie  to  himself  for  one ;  a  passion  for  the  man  who's 
down — that's  another.  .  .  .  I've  read  your  stuff. 
It's  full  of  religion " 

Now  it  seemed  to  Morning  as  if  he  had  just  entered 
a  fascinating  wilderness ;  apart  from  this,  he  saw  some 
thing  about  the  worn,  distressed  mouth  of  Fallows  that 
made  him  think  of  himself  last  night.  There  was  one 
more  effect  from  this  first  brush.  Something  happened 
in  Morning's  mind  with  that  sentence  about  the  inability 
to  lie  to  one's  self.  It  was  like  a  shot  in  the  midst  of  a 
flock  of  quails.  A  pair  of  birds  was  down,  but  the  rest 
of  the  flock  was  off  and  away,  like  the  fragments  of  an 
explosive. 

"I  read  some  of  your  stuff  about  the  Filipino  woman 
— 'woman  of  the  river-banks/  you  called  her.  Another 
time  you  looked  into  a  nipa-shack  where  an  old  man  was 
dying  of  beri-beri,  and  an  old  woman  sat  at  bay  at  the 
door " 

These  brought  back  the  pictures  to  Morning,  and  the 
dimension  behind  the  actual  light  and  shade  and  matter. 
The  healing,  too,  was  that  someone  had  seen  his  work, 
and  seen  from  it  all  that  he  saw, — the  artist's  true  ali 
ment,  which  praise  of  the  many  cannot  furnish.  It  gave 
him  heart  like  an  answer  to  prayer,  because  he  had  been 
very  needful. 

"You  must  have  come  up  hard.  Did  you,  boy?" 
Fallows  asked  after  a  moment. 

"Perhaps  you  would  say  so." 

"Farm  first?" 

"Yes " 

"And  a  father  who  misunderstood?" 

"A  good  deal  of  the  misunderstanding  was  my  own 
bull-headedness,  I  see  now " 

"And  the  mother,  John  Morning?" 

"I  was  too  little " 

"Ah " 

Morning  found  himself  saying  eagerly  a  little  later: 


AFIELD  19 

"And  then  the  city  streets — selling  newspapers, 
errands,  sick  all  the  time,  though  I  didn't  know  it.  Then 
I  got  to  the  horses.  ...  I  found  something  in  the 
stables  good  for  me.  I  liked  horses  so  well  that  it  hurt. 
I  learned  to  sleep  nights  and  eat  regularly — but  read  so 
much  rot.  Still,  it  was  all  right  to  be  a  stable-boy.  A 
big  race-horse  man  took  me  on  to  ship  with  stock.  I've 
been  all  over  America  by  freight  with  the  racers — from 
track  to  track.  I  used  to  let  the  tramps  ride,  but  they 
were  dangerous — especially  the  young  ones.  I  had  to 
stay  awake.  An  old  tramp  could  come  in  anytime — and 
go  to  sleep — but  younger  ones  are  bad.  They  beat  you 
up  for  a  few  dimes.  I  was  bad,  too,  bad  as  hell.  .  .  . 
And  then  I  rode — there  was  money,  but  it  went.  I  got 
sick  keeping  light.  The  pounds  over  a  hundred  beat  me 
out  of  the  game — except  the  jumps.  I've  ridden  the 
jumpers  in  England,  too — been  all  broken  up.  In"a  fall 
you  can't  always  get  clear.  .  .  .  All  this  was  before 
I  was  eighteen — it  was  my  kind  of  education." 

"I  likejt,"  said  Fallows. 

"One  night  in  New  York  I  heard  a  newspaper  man 
talk.  ...  It  was  in  a  back-room  bar  on  Sixth  ave 
nue.  I  see  now  he  was  a  bit  broken  down.  He  looked 
to  me  then  all  that  was  splendid  and  sophisticated.  I 
wanted  to  be  like  him " 

Fallows  bent  forward,  his  face  tender  as  a  father's. 
"You  poor  little  chap,"  he  said,  as  if  he  did  not  see  Morn 
ing  now,  but  the  listening  boy  in  the  back-room  bar. 

"You  see,  I  never  really  got  the  idea  of  having  money 
• — it  went  so  quickly.  The  idea  of  a  big  bundle  didn't 
get  a  chance  to  sink  in.  I've  had  several  hundred  dol 
lars  at  once  from  riding — but  the  next  day's  races,  or  the 
next,  got  it.  What  I'm  trying  to  say  is — winnings  didn't 
seem  to  belong  to  me.  Poverty  was  a  habit.  I  always 
think  yet  in  nickels  and  dimes.  I  seem  to  belong — 
steerage.  It  wasn't  long  after  I  listened  to  that  reporter, 
that  I  got  a  newspaper  job,  chasing  pictures.  A  year 


20  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

after  that  the  wars  began.  I  went  out  first  on  my  own 
hook ;  in  fact,  I  think  you'd  call  it  that  now.  I  seem  to 
get  into  a  sort  of  mania  to  be  off — when  the  papers 
begin  to  report  trouble.  I  didn't  know  I  was  poorly  fixed 
this  time,  until  here  in  Tokyo  I  saw  how  the  others  go 
about  it.  Dinner-clothes,  and  all  sorts  of  money  invested 
in  them — whether  the  war  makes  good  or  not " 

"I  was  right,"  Fallows  said  finally.  He  had  listened 
as  a  forest  in  a  drouth  listens  for  rain. 

Morning  was  embarrassed.  He  had  been  caught  in 
the  current  of  the  other's  listening.  It  was  not  his  way 
at  all  to  talk  so  much.  He  wasn't  tamed  altogether ;  and 
then  he  had  been  extra  hurt  by  the  night  and  the  day. 
An  element  of  savagery  arose,  with  the  suspicion  that 
Fallows  might  be  making  fun  of  him. 

"What  were  you  right  about,  Mr.  Fallows?" 

"You've  got  an  especial  guardian." 

Morning  waited.  The  fuel  was  crackling.  The  Cal- 
ifornian  watched  the  fire  and  finally  began  to  talk. 

"You're  one  of  them.  I  saw  it  in  your  stuff.  Then 
they  told  me  here  that  you  lived  in  a  little  Japanese  hotel 
alone.  That's  another  reason.  Your  kind  come  up  alone 
— always  alone.  To-day  I  saw  you  watching  that  picture 
business.  You  looked  tired — as  if  you  had  a  long  way 
yet  to  swim  against  the  current.  You  had  a  fight  on — 
inside  and  out.  You'll  keep  on  fighting  inside,  long  after 
the  world  outside  has  called  a  truce.  When  you're  as 
old  as  I  am — maybe  before — you'll  have  peace  inside  and 
out." 

Morning  was  bewildered ;  and  had  somewhat  braced 
himself  in  scepticism,  as  if  the  other  were  reading  a  for 
tune  out  of  a  cup. 

"You're  one  of  them,  and  you've  got  a  guardian — • 
greater  than  ten  of  these  militia  press-agents.  You  don't 
know  it  yet,  but  your  stuff  shows  it ;  your  life  shows  it. 
You  try  to  do  what  you  want — and  you're  forced  to  do 
better.  You'll  be  kept  steerage,  as  you  call  it, — kept 


AFIELD  21 

down  among-  men — until  you  see  that  it's  the  place  for 
a  white  man  to  be,  and  that  all  these  other  things — din 
ner-coats  and  expense  accounts — are  but  tricks  to  cover 
a  weakness.  You'll  be  held  down  among  men  until  you 
love  them,  and  would  be  sick  away  from  service  with 
them.  You  won't  be  able  to  rest  unless  you're  helping. 
You'll  choke  when  you  say  'Brother.'  You'll  answer 
their  misery  and  cry  from  your  sleep,  'I'm  coming.'  You 
hear  them  with  your  soul  now,  but  the  brain  won't  listen 
yet.  You'll  go  it  blind  for  the  under-dog — and  find  out 
afterwards  that  you  were  immortally  right." 

Morning's  breast  was  burning.  It  was  more  the  fiery 
flood  of  kindness  than  the  words.  He  had  been  roughed 
so  thoroughly  that  he  couldn't  take  words ;  he  needed  a 
sign. 

"The  time  will  come  when  you'll  hear  your  soul  say 
ing,  'Get  down  among  men,  John,  and  help.'  You'll 
jump.  A  storm  of  hell  will  follow  you  if  you  don't. 
They'll  throw  you  overboard  and  even  the  whale  won't 
stomach  you  if  you  don't.  'Get  down  among  men, 
John' ;  that's  your  orders  to  Nineveh." 

The  Calif ornian  changed  the  subject  abruptly: 

"They  were  good  enough  to  give  me  a  place  with  the 
first  column,  but  I  can't  see  it  quite.  There's  going  to 
be  too  much  supervision.  These  Japanese  are  rivet- 
headed.  I  like  the  other  end.  New  Chwang  is  still 
open.  Lowenkampf  is  in  command  there.  I  knew  him 
years  ago  in  Vienna.  Good  man  for  a  soldier — old 
Lowenkampf.  He'll  take  us  in.  Let's  go  over " 

"I  won't  be  exactly  'healed'  for  a  long  stay.  My 
money  is  coming  here — 

"Let  it  pile  up.  I'll  stake  you  for  the  Russian 
picnic." 

Morning  wanted  it  so  intensely  that  he  feared  Duke 
Fallows  might  die  before  they  got  to  Lowenkampf  and 
New  Chwang.  .  .  .  He  was  terrorized  by  this 
thought :  "Fallows  has  somehow  failed  to  understand 


22  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

about  me  not  getting  a  column,  and  not  being  asked  into 
the  picture.  When  he  finds  out,  he'll  change  his 
mind.  .  .  ." 

He  wanted  to  speak,  gathered  strength  with  violent 
effort,  but  Fallows  just  now  was  restlessly  eager  to  go 
below. 


SECOND  class,  that  night,  on  the  Pacific  liner  Man 
churia,  forward  among  the  rough  wooden  bunks, 
eating  from  tin-plates.  ...  It  had  been  Morning's 
suggestion.  Fallows  had  accepted  it  laughingly,  but  as 
a  good  omen. 

"Two  can  travel  cheaply  as  one,"  he  said.  "I'm  quite 
as  comfortable  as  usual." 

Morning  realized  that  his  friend  was  not  comfortable 
at  best.  He  was  too  well  himself,  too  ambitious,  quite 
to  realize  the  other's  illness.  Morning  found  a  quality 
of  understanding  that  he  had  expected  vaguely  to  find 
sometime  from  some  girl,  but  he  could  not  return  the 
gift  in  kind,  nor  right  sympathy  for  the  big  man's  weak 
ness.  Fallows  didn't  appear  to  expect  it. 

They  left  the  Manchuria  at  Nagasaki,  after  the  In 
land  Sea  passage,  found  a  small  ship  for  Tientsin  direct ; 
also  a  leftover  winter  storm  on  the  Yellow  Sea.  Morn 
ing,  at  work,  typewriter  on  his  knees,  looked  up  one 
night  as  they  neared  the  mouth  of  the  Pei-ho.  An  oil- 
lamp  swung  above  them  smokily;  the  tired  ship  still 
creaked  and  wallowed  in  the  gale.  Fallows  has  been 
regarding  him  thoughtfully  from  time  to  time. 

"You  keep  bolstering  me  up,  Duke,  and  I  don't  seem 
to  help  you  any,"  Morning  said.  "Night  and  day,  I 
worry  you  with  the  drum  of  this  machine — when  you're 
too  sick  to  work ;  and  here  you  are  traveling  like  a  tramp 
for  me.  I'm  used  to  it,  but  it  makes  you  worse.  You 


AFIELD  23 

staked  me  and  made  possible  a  bit  of  real  work  this  cam 
paign — why  won't  you  let  me  do  some  stuff  for  you?" 

"Don't  you  worry  about  what  I've  done — that's  par 
ticularly  my  affair.  Call  it  a  gamble.  Perhaps  I  chose 
you  as  a  man  chooses  his  place  to  build  a  house.  .  .  ." 

Morning  wondered  at  times  if  the  other  was  not  half 
dead  with  longing  for  a  woman.  ...  In  the  fifteen 
years  which  separated  the  two  men  in  age  lay  all  the 
difference  between  a  soldier  and  an  artist.  Morning  had 
to  grant  finally  that  the  Californian  had  no  abiding  in 
terest  in  the  war  they  were  out  to  cover ;  and  this  was 
so  foreign  that  the  rift  could  not  be  bridged  entirely. 

"War — why,  I  love  the  thought !"  Fallows  exclaimed. 
"The  fight's  the  thing — but  this  isn't  it.  This  is  just  a 
big  butchery  of  the  blind.  The  Japanese  aren't  sweet 
in  this  passion.  We  won't  see  the  real  Russia  out  here 
in  Asia.  Real  Russia  is  against  all  this  looting  and  lust 
ing.  Real  Russia  is  at  home  singing,  writing,  giving 
itself  to  be  hanged.  Real  Russia  is  glad  to  die  for  a 
dream.  This  soldier  Russia  isn't  ready  to  die.  Just  a 
stir  in  the  old  torpor  of  decadence — this  Russia  we're 
going  to.  You'll  see  it — its  stench  rising.  ...  I 
want  the  other  war.  I  want  to  live  to  fight  in  the  other 
war,  when  the  under-dog  of  this  world — the  under-dog 
of  Russia  and  England  and  America,  runs  no  more, 
cowers  no  more — but  stops,  turns  to  fight  to  the  death. 
I  want  the  barricades,  the  children  fired  with  the  spirit, 
women  coming  down  to  the  ruck,  the  girls  from  the  fac 
tories,  harlots  from  the  slums.  The  women  won't  stay 
at  home  in  the  war  I  mean — and  you  and  I,  John,  must 
be  there, — to  die  every  morning 

Yet  Fallows  didn't  write  this.  He  lay  on  his  back 
dreaming  about  it.  Always  the  wromen  came  into  his 
thoughts.  Morning  held  hard  to  the  game  at  hand. 
.  .  .  Lying  on  his  back — thus  the  Californian  became 
identified  in  his  mind.  And  strange  berths  they  found, 
none  stranger  than  the  one  at  last  in  the  unspeakable 


24  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Chinese  hotel  at  New  Chwang.  Morning  remembered 
the  date — 4/47*04 — for  he  put  it  down  in  the  black  note 
book,  after  smashing  a  centipede  on  the  wall  with  it. 
They  were  awakened  the  next  morning  by  the  passing  of 
a  brigade  of  Russian  infantry  in  full  song.  Each  look 
ing  for  "good-morning"  in  the  eyes  of  the  other,  found 
that  and  tears. 

The  Chinese  house  stirred  galvanically  at  mid-day — 
from  the  farthest  chicken-coop  to  the  guest-chamber  of 
the  most  revered.  Lowenkampf,  commanding  the  port, 
in  sky-blue  uniform,  entered  with  his  orderly  and  em 
braced  a  certain  sick  man  lying  on  a  rough  bench,  be 
tween  his  own  blankets.  It  was  just  so  and  not  other 
wise,  nor  were  the  "European"  strangers  of  distin 
guished  appearance.  They  had  come  in  the  night,  cross 
ing  the  river  in  a  junk,  instead  of  waiting  for  the  Liao- 
launch.  They  had  not  sought  the  Manchurian  hotel, 
where  Europeans  of  quality  usually  go,  but  had  asked 
for  native  quartering.  So  rarely  had  this  happened,  that 
the  tradition  was  forgotten  in  New  Chwang  about  angels 
appearing  unheralded. 

It  was  a  great  thing  to  John  Morning,  this  coming  of 
General  Lowenkampf.  He  had  not  dared  to  trust  alto 
gether  in  the  high  friend  of  Duke  Fallows — nor  even  in 
finding  such  a  friend  in  New  Chwang.  The  actual  fact 
meant  that  they  would  not  be  sent  out  of  the  zone  of 
war,  when  the  Russians  evacuated  from  New  Chwang, 
if  Lowenkampf  could  help  it ;  and  who  could  helg  it  if 
not  the  commander  of  the  garrison?  It  meant,  too,  that 
everything  Duke  Fallows  had  said  in  his  quiet  and  un 
adorned  way  when  speaking  of  purely  mundane  affairs 
had  turned  out  true. 

Fallows  sat  up  in  his  bunk  to  receive  the  embrace  he 
knew  was  coming.  The  General  was  a  small  man.  He 
must  have  been  fifty.  He  appeared  a  tired  father, — the 
father  who  puts  his  hands  to  his  ears  and  looks  terrified 
when  his  children  approach,  but  who  loves  them  with 


AFIELD  25 

secret  fury  and  prays  for  them  in  their  beds  at  night. 
He  had  suffered ;  he  had  a  readiness  to  tears ;  he  needed 
much  brandy  at  this  particular  interval,  as  if  his  day 
had  not  begun  well.  He  spoke  of  the  battle  of  the  Yalu 
and  his  tears  were  positive.  It  was  a  mistake,  a  hideous 
mistake.  He  said  this  in  English,  and  with  the  fright 
ened  intensity  of  a  woman  whose  lover  has  died  misun 
derstanding  her.  .  .  .  No,  they  were  not  to  stay  at 
New  Chwang.  .  .  .  He  would  make  them  comfort 
able.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  married  a  woman  six  years 
ago.  ...  It  murders  the  soldier  in  a  man  to  marry 
a  woman  and  find  her  like  other  women.  You  may 
think  on  the  mystery  of  childbirth  a  whole  life — but  when 
your  own  woman,  in  your  own  house,  brings  you  a  child, 
it  is  all  different.  A  thing  to  be  awed  at.  ...  It 
draws  the  soldier-pith  out  of  one's  spine,  as  you  draw 
the  nerve  out  of  a  tooth.  .  .  .  You  are  never  the 
same  afterward. 

Fallows  sank  back  smiling  raptly. 

"You're  the  same  old  nervous  prince  of  realizers — 
Lowenkampf — always  realizing  your  own  affairs  with 
unprecedented  realism.  God  knows,  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
.  .  .  John  Morning,  here  is  a  man  who  can  tell  you 
a  thing  you  have  heard  before,  in  a  way  that  you'll  never 
forget.  It's  because  he  only  talks  about  what  he  has 
realized  for  himself.  His  name  is  blown  in  the  fabric  of 
all  he  says.  .  .  .  Lowenkampf,  here's  a  boy.  I've 
been  looking  for  him,  years — ever  since  I  found  my  own 
failure  inevitable.  John  Morning — Lowenkampf,  the 
General.  If  you  both  live  to  get  back  to  your  babies — 
Morning's  are  still  in  the  sky,  their  dawn  is  not  yet — you 
will  remember  this  day — for  it  is  a  significant  Trinity. 
.  .  .  General,  how  many  babies  have  you?" 

"Oh,  my  God— one  !" 

Fallows  seemed  unspeakably  pleased  with  that  ex 
cited  remark.  Lowenkampf  glanced  at  the  shut  eyes  of 
his  old  friend,  and  then  out  of  the  window  to  the  sordid 


26  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

Chinese  street,  where  the  Russian  soldiers  moved  to  and 
fro  in  the  unwieldy  disquiet  of  a  stage  mob  in  its  first 
formation. 

"But  they're  all  my  babies " 

John  Morning  had  a  vision  of  a  battle  with  that  sen 
tence.  All  the  rest  of  the  day  he  thrilled  with  it.  Work 
was  so  pure  in  his  heart  from  the  vision,  that  he  left  his 
machine  that  night  (Duke  Fallows  seemed  asleep)  and 
touched  the  brow  of  his  friend. 


AUGUST — Liaoyang,  the  enemy  closing  in.  ... 
There  were  times  when  John  Morning  doubted  if 
he  had  ever  been  away  from  the  sick  man,  Duke  Fal 
lows,  and  the  crowds  of  Russian  soldiery.  Individually 
the  days  were  long.  Often  in  mid-afternoon,  he  stopped 
to  think  if  some  voice  or  picture  of  to-day's  dawning 
did  not  belong  to  yesterday  or  last  week.  Yet  routine 
settled  upon  all  that  was  past,  and  the  days  accumulated 
into  a  quantity  of  weeks  that  grew  like  the  continual 
miracle  of  a  hard  man's  savings. 

Always  he  missed  something.  He  was  hard  in  health, 
but  felt  white  nowhere,  in  nor  out,  so  much  had  he  been 
played  upon  by  sun  and  wind  and  dust.  The  Russian 
officers  were  continually  asking  him  to  try  new  horses — 
the  roughest  of  the  untamed  purchases  brought  in  by  the 
Chinese.  It  had  become  quite  the  custom  among  the 
officers  to  advise  with  Morning  on  matters  of  horse 
flesh.  Fallows  had  started  it  by  telling  Lowenkampf 
that  Morning  formerly  rode  the  jumpers  in  England, 
but  the  younger  man  had  since  earned  his  reputation  in 
the  Russian  post. 

A  sorrel  mare  had  appeared  in  the  city.  Rat-tailed 
and  Roman-nosed  she  was,  and  covered  with  wounds. 
They  had  tried  to  ride  her  in  from  the  Hun.  Her  skin 


AFIELD  27 

was  like  satin  and  she  had  not  been  saddled  decently. 
Just  a  wild,  head-strong  young  mare  in  the  beginning, 
but  bad  handling  had  made  her  a  mankiller.  Lieutenant 
Luban,  soft  with  vodka  and  cigarettes,  had  dickered  for 
the  mare,  and  drunkenly  insisted  upon  mounting  at  once. 
Morning  caught  the  bridle  after  the  first  fight,  and  Luban 
slid  off  in  his  arms  in  a  state  of  collapse.  Clearly  an 
adult  devil  lived  in  the  sorrel.  She  was  red-eyed  in  her 
rage,  past  pain,  and  walked  like  a  man.  She  would  have 
gone  over  backwards  with  Luban,  and  yet  she  was  lovely 
to  Morning's  eye,  perfect  as  a  yellow  rose.  He  knew 
her  sort — the  kind  that  runs  to  courage  and  not  to  hair; 
the  kind  of  individual  that  rarely  breeds. 

He  led  her  apart,  talked  to  her;  knew  that  she  only 
cared  to  kill  him  and  be  free.  She  was  outrage ;  hate 
was  the  breath  of  her  nostrils ;  but  she  made  Morning 
forget  his  work.  .  .  .  Thirty  officers  were  gathered 
in  the  compound.  Morning  had  saddled  her  afresh ;  her 
back  was  easier — yet  she  was  up,  striking,  pawing.  He 
knew  she  meant  to  go  back.  Stirrup-free,  he  held  her 
around  the  neck  as  she  stood  poised.  His  weight  was 
against  her  toppling,  but  sheer  deviltry  hurled  back  her 
head,  breaking  the  balance.  They  saw  him  push  the  hot 
yellow  neck  from  him  as  she  fell.  He  landed  on  his 
feet,  facing  her  from  the  side,  leaped  clear — and  then 
darted  forward,  catching  the  bridle-rein  before  she 
straightened  her  first  front  leg.  Morning  was  in  the 
saddle  before  she  was  up.  Then  the  whole  thing  was 
done  over  again  as  perfectly  as  one  with  his  hand  in 
repeats  a  remarkable  billiard-shot. 

"It's  only  a  question  of  time — she'll  kill  you,"  said 
Fallows. 

"How  she  hates  the  Chinese,  but  she's  the  gamest 
thing  in  Asia,"  Morning  answered.  "I'd  like  to  be  away 
alone  with  her." 

"You'd  need  a  new  continent  for  a  romance  like 
that,"  Fallows  said,  and  that  night,  in  their  room  of 


28  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Lowenkampf  s  headquarters,  he  resumed  the  subject,  his 
eyes  lost  in  the  dun  ceiling. 

"There's  only  one  name  for  that  sorrel  mare,  if  I'm 
consulted." 

"Name  her,"  Morning  said. 

"The  one  I'm  thinking  of — her  name  is  Eve." 

Fallows  shivered,  and  turned  the  subject,  but  Morn 
ing  knew  he  would  come  back.  .  .  .  They  heard  the 
sentries  on  the  stone  flags  below.  It  was  monotonous 
as  the  sound  of  the  river.  An  east  wind  had  blown  all 
afternoon.  Dust  was  gritty  in  the  blankets,  sore  in  the 
rifts  of  lip  and  nostril  caused  by  the  long  baking  wind. 
Their  eyes  felt  old  in  the  dry  heat.  Daily  the  trains 
had  brought  more  Russians ;  daily  more  Chinese  refugees 
slipped  out  behind.  Liaoyang  was  a'mass  of  soldiery — 
heavy  and  weary  with  soldiers — dull  with  its  single 
thought  of  defense.  For  fifty  or  more  miles,  the  south 
ern  arc  of  the  circle  about  the  old  walled  city  was  a 
system  of  defense — chains  of  Russian  redouts,  com 
plicated  entanglements,  hill  emplacements  and  rifle-pits. 
Beyond  this  the  Japanese  gathered  openly  and  prepared. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  earth  itself  would  scream  from  the 
break  in  the  tension  when  firing  began.  .  .  . 

"John — a    man    must    be    alone "    Fallows    said 

abruptly. 

"That's  one  of  the  first  things  you  told  me — and  that 
a  man  mustn't  lie  to  himself." 

"It  must  be  thinking  about  your  romance  with  that 
sorrel  fiend — that  brings  her  so  close  to-night,  I  mean 
the  real  Eve.  I  had  to  put  the  ocean  between  us — and 
yet  she  comes.  Listen,  John,  when  you  are  dull  and 
tired  after  a  hard  day,  you  take  a  drink  or  two  of 
brandy.  You,  especially  you,  are  new  and  lifted  again. 
That's  what  happens  to  me  when  a  woman  comes  into 
the  room.  .  .  ." 

Twice  before  Morning  had  been  on  the  verge  of  this, 
and  something  spoiled  it.  He  listened  now,  for  Fallows 


AFIELD  29 

opened  his  heart.  His  eyes  held  unblinkingly  the  dim 
shadows  of  the  ceiling.  The  step  of  the  sentries  sank 
into  the  big  militant  silence — and  this  was  revelation : 

"God,  how  generous  women  are  with  their  treasures! 
They  are  devils  because  of  their  great-heartedness.  So 
swift,  so  eager,  so  delicate  in  their  giving.  They  look 
up  at  you,  and  you  are  lost.  My  life  has  been  gathering 
a  bouquet — and  some  flowers  fade  in  your  hand.  .  .  . 
I  hated  it,  but  they  looked  up  so  wistfully — and  it  seemed 
as  if  I  were  rending  in  a  vacuum.  .  .  .  Always  the 
moment  of  illusion — that  this  one  is  the  last,  that  here 
is  completion,  that  peace  will  come  with  this  fragrance; 
always  their  giving  is  different  and  very  beautiful — and 
always  the  man  is  deeper  in  hell  for  their  bestowal. 

.  .  A  day  or  a  month — man's  incandescence  is  gone. 
Brown  eyes,  blue  eyes — face  pale  or  ruddy — lips  pas 
sionate  or  pure — their  giving  momentary  or  immortal — 
and  yet,  I  could  not  stay.  Always  they  were  hurt — less 
among  men,  less  among  their  sisters,  and  no  strangers 
to  suffering — and  always  hell  accumulated  upon  my 
head.  .  .  .  Then  she  came.  There's  a  match  in  the 
world  for  every  man.  Her  name  is  Eve.  She  is  the 
answer  of  her  sisterhood  to  such  as  I. 

"She  was  made  so.  She  will  not  have  me  near.  And 
yet  with  all  her  passion  and  mystery  she  is  calling  to 
me.  The  rolling  Pacific  isn't  broad  enough.  She  has 
bound  me  by  all  that  I  have  given  to  others,  by  all  that 
I  have  denied  others.  She  was  made  to  match  me,  and 
came  to  her  task  full-powered,  as  the  sorrel  mare  came 
to  corral  to-day  for  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  honor  her." 

There  was  silence  which  John  Morning  could  not 
break.  Fallows  began  to  talk  of  death — in  terms  which 
the  other  remembered. 

".  .  .  For  the  death  of  the  body  makes  no  differ 
ence.  In  the  body  here  we  build  our  heaven  or  hell. 
If  we  have  loved  possessions  of  the  earth — we  are 
weighted  with  them  afterward, — imprisoned  among 


30  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

them.  If  we  love  flesh  here,  we  are  held  like  shadows 
to  fleshly  men  and  women,  enmeshed  in  our  own  prevail 
ing-  desire.  If  our  life  has  been  one  of  giving  to  others, 
of  high  and  holy  things — we  are  at  the  moment  of  the 
body's  death,  like  powerful  and  splendid  birds  suddenly 
hearing  the  mystic  call  of  the  South.  Death,  it  is  the 
great  cleansing  flight  into  the  South.  .  .  ." 

This  from  the  sick  man,  was  new  as  the  first  rustle 
of  Spring  to  John  Morning ;  yet  within,  he  seemed  long 
to  have  been  expectant.  There  was  thrill  in  the  spec 
tacle  of  the  other  who  had  learned  by  losing.  .  .  . 

Morning's  mind  was  like  the  beleaguered  city — 
desperate  with  waiting  and  potential  disorder,  outwardly 
arrogant,  afraid  in  secret.  .  .  .  Duke  Fallows  was 
thinking  of  a  woman,  as  he  visioned  his  lost  paradise. 
The  younger  man  left  the  lamp-light  to  go  to  him,  and 
heard  as  he  leaned  over  the  cot : 

".  .  .  Like  a  lost  traveler  to  the  single  point  of 
light,  John,  I  shall  go  to  her.  Eve — the  one  red  light — 
I  will  glow  red  in  the  desire  of  her.  She  is  my  creation. 
Out  of  the  desire  of  my  strength  she  was  created.  As 
they  have  mastered  me  in  the  flesh,  this  creation  of  mine 
shall  master  me  afterward — with  red  perpetual  mastery." 

Lowenkampf  came  in.  They  saw  by  his  eyes  that 
he  was  more  than  ever  drawn,  in  the  tension  and  heart- 
hunger.  He  always  brought  his  intimacies  to  the  Amer 
icans.  A  letter  had  reached  him  from  Europe  in  the 
morning,  but  the  army  had  given  him  no  time  to  think 
until  now.  It  was  not  the  letter,  but  something  in  it, 
that  reminded  him  of  a  story.  So  he  brought  his  brandy 
and  the  memory : 

".  .  .  It  was  two  or  three  evenings  before  I  left 
Petersburg  to  come  here.  I  had  followed  him  about — 
my  little  son  who  is  five  years.  I  had  followed  him  about 
the  house  all  day.  Every  little  while  at  some  door,  or 
through  some  curtain — I  would  see  the  mother  smiling 
at  us.  It  was  new  to  me — for  I  had  been  seldom  home 


AFIELD  31 

in  the  day-time — this  playing  with  one's  little  son  through 
the  long  day.  But  God,  I  knew  I  was  no  longer  a  sol 
dier.  I  think  the  little  mother  knew.  She  is  braver  than 
I.  She  was  the  soldier — for  not  a  tear  did  I  see  all  that 
day.  .  .  .  And  that  night  I  lay  down  with  my  little 
son  to  talk  until  he  fell  asleep.  It  was  dark  in  the  room, 
but  light  was  in  the  hall-way  and  the  door  open.  .  .  . 
You  see,  he  is  just  five — and  very  pure  and  fresh." 

Fallows  sat  up.     He  was  startling  in  the  shadow. 

".  .  .  For  a  long  time  my  little  man  stirred  and 
talked — of  riding  horses,  when  his  legs  were  a  little 
longer,  and  of  many  things  to  do.  He  would  be  a  sol 
dier,  of  course.  God  pity  the  little  thought.  We  would 
ride  together  soon — not  in  front  of  my  saddle,  but  on  a 
pony  of  his  own — one  that  would  keep  up.  I  was  to 
take  him  out  to  swim  .  .  .  and  we  would  walk  in 
the  country  to  see  the  trees  and  animals.  .  .  .  My 
heart  ached  for  love  of  him — and  I,  the  soldier,  wished 
there  were  no  Asia  in  this  world,  no  Asia,  nor  any  war 
or  torment.  .  .  .  He  had  seen  a  gray  pony  which  he 
liked,  because  it  had  put  its  head  down,  as  if  to  listen. 
It  didn't  wear  any  straps  nor  saddle,  but  came  close,  as 
one  knowing  a  friend,  and  put  its  head  down — thus  the 
child  was  speaking  to  me. 

"And  I  heard  her  step  in  the  hall — the  light,  quick 
step.  Her  figure  came  into  the  light  of  the  door-way. 
She  looked  intently  through  the  shadows  where  we  lay, 
her  eyelids  lifted,  and  a  smile  on  her  lips.  Our  little  son 
saw  her  and  this  is  what  he  said  so  drowsily: 

"  'We  are  talking  about  what  we  will  do — when  we 
get  to  be  men.'  " 

Fallows  broke  this  silence : 

"  'When  we  get  to  be  men.'  Thank  you,  General. 
That  was  good  for  me.  .  .  .  Our  friend  John 
needed  that  little  white  cloud,  too.  I've  just  been  lead 
ing  him  among  the  wilted  primroses." 


32  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Morning  did  not  speak. 

Lowenkampf  said  the  fighting-  would  begin  around  the 
outer  position  to-morrow.  .  .  .  But  that  had  been 
said  before. 

8 

ON  the  night  of  August  3ist,  for  all  the  planning,  the 
progress  of  the  battle  was  not  to  the  Russian  lik 
ing.  All  that  day  the  movements  of  the  Russians  had 
mystified  John  Morning.  The  broad  bend  of  the  river  to 
the  east  of  the  city  had  been  crowded  with  troops — • 
seemingly  an  aimless  change  of  pastures.  He  felt  that 
after  all  his  study  of  the  terrain  and  its  possibilities,  the 
big  thing  was  getting  away  from  him.  When  he  men 
tioned  this  ugly  fear  to  Fallows,  the  answer  was : 

"And  that's  just  what  the  old  man  feels." 

Fallows  referred  to  Kuropatkin. 

The  monster  spectacle  had  blinded  Morning.  He  had 
to  hold  hard  at  times  to  keep  his  rage  from  finding  words 
in  answer  to  Duke  Fallows'  scorn  for  the  big  waiting- 
panorama  which  had  enthralled  him  utterly — the  fleeing 
refugees,  singing  infantry,  the  big  gun  postures,  the 
fluent  cavalry  back  along  the  railroad,  the  armored  hills, 
the  whole  marvelous  atmosphere.  .  .  .  None  of  this 
appeared  to  matter  to  Fallows.  He  had  written  little  or 
nothing.  God  knew  why  he  had  come.  He  would  do 
a  story,  of  course.  .  .  .  Morning  had  written  a  book 
— the  climax  of  which  would  be  the  battle.  He  had 
staked  all  on  the  majesty  of  the  story.  His  career  would 
be  constructed  upon  it.  He  would  detach  himself  from 
all  this  and  appear  suddenly  in  America — the  one  man  in 
America  who  knew  Liaoyang.  He  would  be  Liaoyang; 
his  mind  the  whole  picture.  He  knew  the  wall,  the  Chi 
nese  names  of  the  streets,  the  city  and  its  tenderloin, 
where  the  Cantonese  women  were  held  in  hideous  bond 
age.  He  knew  the  hills  and  the  river — the  rapid  treach- 


AFIELD  33 

ery  of  the  Taitse.  He  had  watched  the  trains  come  in 
from  Europe  with  food,  horses,  guns  and  men ;  had  even 
learned  much  Russian  and  some  Chinese.  He  had 
studied  Lowenkampf,  Bilderling,  Zarubaieff,  Mergen- 
thaler;  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Kuropatkin  him 
self.  .  .  . 

Duke  Fallows  said : 

"All  this  is  but  one  idea,  John — one  dirty  little  idea 
multiplied.  Don't  let  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  sol 
diers  spoil  the  fact  in  your  mind.  Lowenkampf  person 
ally  isn't  capable  of  fighting  for  himself  on  such  a  rotten 
basis.  Fighting  with  a  stranger  on  a  neighbor's  property 
—that's  the  situation.  Russia  says  to  Old  Man  China, 
'Go,  take  a  little  airing  among  your  hills.  A  certain 
enemy  of  mine  is  on  the  way  here,  and  I  want  to  kill 
him  from  your  house.  It  will  be  a  dirty  job,  but  it  is 
important  to  me  that  he  be  killed  just  so.  I'll  clean  up 
the  door-step  afterward,  repair  all  damages,  and  live  in 
your  house  myself.  .  .  .  And  the  Japanese  have 
trampled  the  flowers  and  vegetable-beds  of  the  poor  old 
Widow  Korea  to  get  here 

Thus  the  California!!  took  the  substance  out  of  the 
hundred  thousand  words  Morning  had  written  in  the 
past  few  months.  Dozens  of  small  articles  had  been  sent 
out  until  a  fortnight  ago  through  Lowenkampf,  via 
Shanghai,  but  the  main  fiber  of  each  was  kept  for  this 
great  story,  which  he  meant  to  sell  in  one  piece  in 
America. 

Kuropatkin — both  Morning  and  Fallows  saw  him  as 
the  mighty  beam  in  the  world's  eye  at  this  hour.  To 
Morning  he  was  the  risen  master  of  events ;  to  Fallows 
merely  a  figure  tossed  up  from  the  moil.  Morning  saw 
him  as  the  source  of  power  to  the  weak,  as  a  silencer  of 
the  disputatious  and  the  envious,  as  the  holding  selvage 
to  the  vast  Russian  garment,  worn,  stained  and  ready  to 
ravel,  the  one  structure  of  hope  in  a  field  of  infinite  fail 
ures.  Fallows  saw  him  as  an  integral  part  of  all  this 


34  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

disorder  and  disruption,  one  whose  vision  was  marvelous 
only  in  the  detection  of  excuses  for  himself  in  the  action 
of  others ;  whose  sorrow  was  a  pose  and  whose  self  was 
far  too  imperious  for  him  firmly  to  grip  the  throat  of  a 
large  and  vital  obstacle.  What  Morning  called  the  mys 
tical  somberness  of  the  chief,  Fallows  called  the  sullen 
silence  of  dim  comprehension.  Somewhere  between  these 
notations  the  Commander  stood.  .  .  .  They  had  seen 
him  at  dusk  that  day.  "He  seems  to  be  repressing  him 
self  by  violent  effort,"  the  younger  man  whispered. 

"What  would  you  say  he  were  repressing,  John — 
his  appetite?" 

The  answer  was  silence,  and  late  that  night,  (the 
Russian  force  was  now  tense  and  compact  as  a  set 
spring),  Fallows  dropped  down  upon  his  cot,  saying: 
"You  think  I'm  a  scoffer,  don't  you?" 
"You  break  a  man's  point,  that's  all — — " 
"I  know — but  we're  not  to  be  together  always. 
.  .  .  Listen,  don't  think  me  a  scoffer,  even  now. 
These  big,  bulky  things  won't  hold  you  forever.  Per 
haps,  if  I  were  a  bigger  man,  I'd  keep  silent.  You'll 
write  them  well,  no  doubt  about  that.  .  .  .  But  don't 
get  into  the  habit  of  thinking  me  a  scoffer.  There's  such 
a  lot  of  finer  things  to  fall  for.  John,  I  wasn't  a  scoffer 
when  I  first  read  your  stuff — and  saw  big  forces  moving 
around  you.  ...  A  man  who  knows  a  little  about 
women,  knows  a  whole  lot  about  men.  .  .  .  To  be 
a  famous  soldier,  John,  a  man  can't  have  any  such  forces 
moving  around  him.  He  must  be  an  empty  back-ground. 
All  his  strength  is  the  compound  of  meat  and  eggs  and 

fish ;  his  strength  goes  to  girth  and  jowl  and  fist " 

"You're  a  wonderful  friend  to  me,  Duke." 
"That's  just  what  I  didn't  want  you  to  say.     .     .     , 
There's  no  excellence  on  my  part.    Like  a  good  book,  I 
couldn't  riddle  you  in  one  reading." 

Morning  found  himself  again,  as  he  wrote  on  that 
last  night  of  preparation ;  that  last  night  of  summer.     It 


AFIELD  35 

was  always  the  way,  when  the  work  came  well.  It 
brought  him  liveableness  with  himself  and  kindness  for 
others.  He  had  his  own  precious  point  of  view  again, 
too.  He  pictured  Kuropatkin  .  .  .  sitting  at  his  desk, 
harried  by  his  sovereign,  tormented  by  princes,  seeing 
as  no  other  could  see  the  weaknesses  in  the  Russian  dis 
plays  of  power,  and  knowing  the  Japanese  better  than 
any  other ;  the  man  who  had  come  up  from  Plevna  fight 
ing,  who  had  written  his  fightings,  who  was  first  to  say, 
"We  are  not  ready,"  and  first  to  gather  up  the  unpre- 
paredness  for  battle. 

Morning  felt  himself  the  reporter  of  the  Fates  for 
this  great  carnage.  He  wanted  to  see  the  fighting,  to 
miss  no  phase  of  it — to  know  the  mechanics,  the  results, 
the  speed,  the  power,  weakness  and  every  rending  of  this 
great  force.  He  did  not  want  the  morals  of  it,  the  evil 
spirit  behind,  but  the  brute  material  action.  He  wanted 
the  literary  Kuropatkin,  not  a  possible  reality.  He 
wanted  the  one  hundred  thousand  words  driven  by  the 
one-seeing,  master-seeing  reporter's  instinct.  He  was 
Russian  in  hope  and  aspiration — but  absolutely  negative 
in  what  was  to  take  place.  He  wanted  the  illusion  of  the 
service ;  he  saw  the  illusion  more  clearly ;  so  could  the 
public.  The  illusion  bore  out  every  line  of  his  work  so 
far.  To  laugh  at  the  essence  of  the  game  destroyed  its 
meaning,  and  the  huge  effect  he  planned  to  make  in 
America. 

Morning  was  sorry  now  for  having  lost  during  the 
day  the  sense  of  fine  relation  with  Fallows,  but  every 
thing  he  had  found  admirable — from  toys  and  sweets  to 
wars  and  women — the  sick  man  had  found  futile  and 
betraying;  everything  that  his  own  mind  found  good 
was  waylaid  and  diminished  by  the  other.  Fallows,  in 
making  light  of  the  dramatic  suspense  of  the  city,  had 
struck  at  the  very  roots  of  his  ambition.  The  work  of 
the  night  had  healed  this  all,  however. 


36  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

The  last  night  of  summer — joyously  he  ended  the  big 
picture.  Three  themes  ran  through  entire — Nodzu's 
artillery,  under  which  the  Russians  were  willingly  dis 
lodging  from  the  shoulders  and  slopes  of  Pensu-marong ; 
the  tread  of  the  Russian  sentries  below,  (a  real  bit  of 
Russian  bass  in  the  Liaoyang  symphony),  and  the  glis- 
sando  of  the  rain. 

He  sat  back  from  his  machine  at  last.  There  were 
two  hundred  and  seventy  sheets  altogether  of  thin  tough 
parchment-copy — 400  words  to  the  page,  and  the  whole 
could  be  folded  into  an  inside  pocket.  It  was  ready  for 
the  battle  itself.  .  .  .  All  the  Morning  moods  were 
in  the  work — moments  of  photographic  description,  of 
philosophic  calm,  instant  reversals  to  glowing  idealism — 
then  the  thrall  of  the  spectacle — finally,  a  touch,  just  a 
touch  to  add  age,  of  Fallows'  scorn.  It  was  newspaper 
stuff — what  was  wanted.  He  had  brought  his  whole  in 
strument  up  to  concert-pitch  to-night.  The  story  was 
ready  for  the  bloody  artist. 

His  heart  softened  emotionally  toward  Fallows  lying 
on  his  back  over  in  the  shadows.  .  .  .  Lowenkampf 
came  in  for  a  queer  melting  moment.  .  .  .  Morning 
looked  affectionately  at  his  little  traveling  type-mill.  It 
had  never  faltered — a  hasty,  cheap,  last-minute  purchase 
in  America,  but  it  had  seen  him  through.  It  was  like  a 
horse  one  picks  up  afield,  wears  out  and  never  takes 
home,  but  thinks  of  many  times  in  the  years  afterward. 
Good  little  beast.  .  .  .  And  this  made  him  think 
with  a  thrill  of  Eve,  brooding  in  the  dark  below.  .  .  . 
She  was  adjusted  to  a  thought  in  his  mind  that  had  to 
do  with  the  end  of  the  battle.  It  was  a  big-bored, 
furious  idea.  Morning  glanced  at  his  watch.  Two- 
fifteen  on  the  morning  of  September.  He  unlaced  one 
shoe,  but  the  idea  intervened  again  and  he  moved  off  in 
the  stirring  dream  of  it.  It  was  three  o'clock  when  he 
bent  to  the  other  shoe. 


AFIELD  37 


ALL  the  next  day,  Liaoyang  was  shelled  from  the 
south  and  southeast;  all  day  Eve  shivered  and 
sweated  in  the  smoky  turmoil.  At  dusk,  Morning,  to 
whom  the  mare  was  far  too  precious  to  be  worn  out  in 
halter,  rode  back  to  Yentai  along  the  railroad.  She  op 
erated  like  a  perfect  toy  over  that  twelve  miles  of  beaten 
turf.  The  rain  ceased  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  the  dark 
warmth  of  the  night  seemed  to  poise  her  every  spring. 
The  man  was  electric  from  her.  At  the  station  Morn 
ing  learned  that  Lowenkampf,  with  thirteen  battalions, 
already  had  occupied  the  lofty  coal-fields,  ten  miles  to 
the  east  on  a  stub  of  the  railroad.  He  had  first  sup 
posed  the  force  of  Siberians  now  crowding  the  station 
to  be  Lowenkampf 's  men ;  instead  it  was  his  reserve. 
Eve  had  lathered  richly,  so  that  an  hour  passed  before 
she  was  cool  enough  for  grain  or  water.  He  rubbed  her 
down,  meanwhile,  talked  to  her  softly  and  made  plans. 
Her  eye  flashed  red  at  the  candle,  as  he  shut  the  door  of 
the  stable.  That  night  on  foot  he  did  the  ten  miles  to 
the  collieries,  joining  Fallows  and  the  General  at  mid 
night.  .  .  .  Morning  was  struck  with  the  look  of 
Lowenkampf's  face.  He  wasn't  taking  a  drink  that 
night ;  his  mouth  was  old  and  white.  A  thin  bar  of  pal 
lor  stretched  obliquely  from  chin  to  cheek-bone.  The 
chin  trembled,  too ;  the  eyes  were  hungerful,  yet  so  kind. 
Desperate  incongruity  somewhere.  This  man  should 
have  been  back  in  Europe  with  his  neighbors  about  the 
fire — his  comrade  tucked  in  up-stairs,  the  little  mother 
pouring  tea.  And  yet,  Lowenkampf — effaced  with  his 
anguish  and  dreamy-eyed,  as  if  surveying  the  distance 
between  his  heaven  and  hell — was  the  brain  of  the  sledge 
that  was  to  break  the  Flanker's  back-bone  to-morrow. 

"The  Taitse  is  only  ten  miles  south,"  said  Fallows, 
as  they  turned  in.  "Bilderling  is  there.  Kuroki  is  sup 
posed  to  poke  his  nose  in  between,  and  Lowenkampf  is  to 


3  8  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

smash  it  against  Bilderling.  Mergenthaler's  Cossacks 
are  here  to  take  the  van  in  the  morning,  and  we're  backed 
up  by  a  big  body  of  Siberians,  stretching  behind  to  Yen- 

tai  station " 

"I  saw  'em,"  said  Morning.  "Lowenkampf  looks  sick 
with  strain." 

Day  appeared,  with  just  the  faintest  touch  of  red 
showing  like  a  broken  bit  of  glass.  Rain-clouds,  burst 
ing-heavy,  immediately  rolled  over  it, — a  deluge  of  grays, 
leisurely  stirring  with  whitish  and  watery  spots.  Though 
his  troops  were  taking  the  field,  Lowenkampf  had  not 
left  his  quarters  in  the  big  freight  go-down.  Command 
ers  hurried  in  and  out.  Fallows  was  filling  two  canteens 
with  diluted  tea,  when  an  old  man  entered,  weeping.  It 
was  Colonel  Ritz,  bent,  red-eyed,  nearly  seventy,  who  had 
been  ordered,  on  account  of  age  and  decrepitude,  to  re 
main  with  the  staff.  Brokenly,  he  begged  for  his  com 
mand. 

"I  have  always  stayed  with  the  line,  General.  I  shall 
be  quick  as  another.  Don't  keep  an  old  man,  who  has 
always  stuck  to  the  line — don't  keep  one  like  that  back 
in  time  of  battle." 

Lowenkampf  smiled  and  embraced  him — sending  him 
out  with  his  regiment. 

Mergenthaler  now  came  in.  There  was  something 
icy  and  hateful  about  this  Roman-faced  giant.  His  coun 
tenance  was  like  a  bronze  shield — so  small  the  black  eyes, 
and  so  wide  and  high  the  cheek-bones.  For  months  his 
Cossacks  had  done  sensational  work — small  fighting,  far 
scouting,  desperate  service.  He  despised  Lowenkampf ; 
believed  he  had  earned  the  right  to  be  the  hammer  to 
day  ;  and,  in  truth,  he  had,  but  Lowenkampf,  who  ranked 
him,  had  been  chosen.  Bleak  and  repulsive  with  rage, 
the  Cossack  chief  made  no  effort  to  repress  himself. 
Lowenkampf  was  reminded  that  he  had  been  policing  the 
streets  of  Liaoyang  for  weeks,  that  his  outfit  was  "fat- 


AFIELD  39 

heeled  and  duck-livered."  .  .  .  More  was  said  be 
fore  Mergenthaler  stamped  out,  his  jaw  set  like  a  stone 
balcony.  It  seemed  as  if  he  tore  from  the  heart  of  Low- 
enkampf  the  remnant  of  its  stamina.  .  .  .  For  a 
moment  the  three  were  alone  in  the  head-quarters.  Fal 
lows  caught  the  General  by  the  shoulders  and  looked 
down  in  his  face  : 

"Little  Father — you're  the  finest  and  most  courageous 
of  them  all.  ...  It  will  be  known  and  proven — 
what  I  say,  old  friend — 'when  we  get  to  be  men.'  " 

The  masses  of  Lowenkampf's  infantry,  forming  on 
the  heights  among  the  coal-fields,  melted  at  the  outer 
edges  and  slid  downward.  Willingly  the  men  went. 
They  did  not  know  that  this  was  the  day.  They  had 
been  fearfully  expectant  of  battle  at  first — ever  since 
Lake  Baikal  was  crossed.  Battalion  after  battalion  slid 
off  the  heights,  and  were  lost  in  the  queer  lanes  running 
through  the  rocks  and  low  timber  below.  The  general 
movement  was  silent.  The  rain  held  off;  the  air  was 
close  and  warm.  Lowenkampf,  unvaryingly  attentive 
to  the  two  Americans,  put  them  in  charge  of  Lieutenant 
Luban,  the  young  staff  officer,  whom  Morning  had 
caught  in  his  arms  from  the  back  of  the  sorrel.  Down 
the  ledges  they  went,  as  the  others. 

Morning  was  uneasy,  as  one  who  feels  he  has  for 
gotten  something — a  tugging  in  his  mind  to  go  back. 
He  was  strongly  convinced  that  Lowenkampf  was  unsub 
stantial  in  a  military  way.  He  could  not  overcome  the 
personal  element  of  this  dread — as  if  the  General  were  of 
his  house,  and  he  knew  better  than  another  that  he  was 
ill-prepared  for  the  day's  trial. 

Fallows  welcomed  any  disaster.  As  he  had  scorned 
the  army  in  its  waiting,  he  scorned  it  now  in  its  strike. 
He  looked  very  lean  and  long.  The  knees  were  in  cor 
duroy  and  unstable,  but  his  nerve  could  not  have  been 
steadier  had  he  been  called  to  a  tea-party  by  Kuroki. 
As  one  who  had  long  since  put  these  things  behind  him, 


40  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Fallows  appeared ;  indeed,  as  one  sportively  called  out  by 
the  younger  set,  to  whom  severing  the  spine  of  a  flanker 
was  fresh  and  engrossing  business.  .  .  .  Morning 
choked  with  suppressions.  Luban  talked  low  and  wide. 
He  was  in  a  funk.  Both  saw  it.  Neither  would  have 
objected,  except  that  he  monopolized  their  thoughts  with 
his  broken  English,  and  to  no  effect. 

Now  they  went  into  the  kao  Hang — vast,  quiet,  enfold 
ing.  It  held  the  heat  stale  from  yesterday.  The  sea 
sonal  rains  had  filled  the  spongy  loam  at  the  roots,  with 
much  to  spare  blackening  the  lower  stems.  .  .  .  For 
an  hour  and  a  half  they  sunk  into  the  several  paths  and 
lost  themselves,  Lowenkampf's  untried  battalions.  The 
armies  of  the  world  might  have  vanished  so,  only  to  be 
seen  by  the  birds,  moving  like  vermin  in  a  hide.  .  .  . 
Men  began  to  think  of  food  and  drink.  The  heights  of 
Yentai,  which  they  had  left  in  bitter  hatred  so  shortly 
ago,  was  now  like  hills  of  rest  on  the  long  road  home. 
More  and  more  the  resistance  of  men  shrunk  in  the  evil 
magic  of  this  pressure  of  grain  and  sky  and  holding 
earth — a  curious,  implacable  umvorldliness  it  was,  that 
made  the  flesh  cry  out. 

"They  should  have  cut  this  grain,"  Luban  said  for  the 
third  time. 

Fallows  had  said  it  first.  Anyone  should  have  seen 
the  ruin  of  this  advance,  unless  the  end  of  the  millet  were 
reached  before  the  beginning  of  battle.  They  had  to  re 
call  with  effort  at  last,  that  there  was  an  outer  world  of 
cities  and  seas  and  plains — anything  but  this  hollow  coun 
try  of  silence  and  fatness. 

If  you  have  ever  jumped  at  the  sudden  drumming  of 
a  pneumatic  hammer,  as  it  rivets  a  bolt  against  the  steel, 
you  have  a  suggestion  of  the  nervous  shock  from  that 
first  far  machine-gun  of  Kuroki's — just  a  suggestion, 
because  Lowenkampf's  soldiers  at  the  moment  were  suf 
focating  in  kao  Hang.  ...  In  such  a  strange  and  ex 
pensive  way,  they  cut  the  crops  that  day. 


AFIELD  41 

Morning  trod  on  the  tail  of  the  battalion  ahead.  It 
had  stopped ;  he  had  not.  The  soldier  in  front  whom 
he  bumped  turned  slowly  around  and  looked  into  his 
face.  The  wide,  glassy  blue  eyes  then  turned  to  Fallows, 
and  after  resting  a  curious  interval,  finally  found 
Luban. 

The  face  was  broad  and  white  as  lard.  Whatever  else 
was  in  it,  there  was  no  denying  the  fear,  the  hate,  the 
cunning — all  of  a  rudimentary  kind.  Luban  was  held  by 
the  man's  gaze.  The  fright  in  both  hearts  sparked  in 
contact.  The  stupid  face  of  the  soldier  suddenly  re 
flected  the  terror  of  the  officer.  And  this  was  the  result: 
The  wide-staring  suddenly  altered  to  a  squint ;  the  vacant, 
helpless  staring  of  a  bewildered  child  turned  into  the 
bright  activity  of  a  trapped  rodent. 

Luban  had  failed  in  his  great  instant.  His  jaw  was 
loose-hinged,  his  mouth  leaked  saliva. 

Now  Morning  and  Fallows  saw  other  faces — twenty 
faces  in  the  grain,  faces  searching  for  the  nearest  officer. 
Their  eyes  roved  to  Luban ;  necks  craned  among  the  fox 
tails.  There  was  a  slow  giving  of  the  line,  and  bumping 
contacts  from  ahead  like  a  string  of  cars.  .  .  . 
Morning  recalled  the  look  of  Luban,  as  he  had  helped 
him  down  from  the  sorrel.  He  had  helped  then;  he 
hated  now.  Fallows  was  better.  He  plumped  the  boy 
on  the  shoulder  and  said  laughingly : 

"Talk  to  'em.  Get  'em  in  hand — quick,  Luban — or 
they'll  be  off !" 

It  was  all  in  ten  seconds.  The  nearest  soldiers  had 
seen  Luban  fail.  Other  platoons,  doubtless  many, 
formed  in  similar  tableaux  to  the  same  end.  A  second 
machine-gun  took  up  the  story.  It  was  far-off,  and 
slightly  to  the  left  of  the  Russian  line  of  advance.  The 
incomprehensible  energy  of  the  thing  weakened  the  Rus 
sian  column,  although  it  drew  no  blood. 

A  roar  ahead  from  an  unseen  battalion-officer — the 
Russian  Forward.  Luban  tried  to  repeat  it,  but  pitifully. 


42  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

A  great  beast  rising  from  the  ooze  and  settling  back 
against  the  voice — such  was  the  answer. 

The  Thought  formed.  It  was  the  thought  of  the  day. 
None  was  too  stupid  to  catch  the  spirit  of  it.  Certain  it 
was,  and  pervading  as  the  grain.  Indeed,  it  was  con 
ceived  of  kao  Viang.  The  drum  of  the  machine-gun,  like 
a  file  in  a  tooth,  was  but  its  quickener.  It  flourished 
under  the  ghostly  grays  and  whites  of  the  sky.  In  the 
forward  battalions  the  Thought  already  clothed  itself  in 
action : 

To  run  back — to  follow  the  paths  back  through  the 
grain — to  reach  the  decent  heights  again.  And  this 
was  but  a  miniature  of  the  thought  that  mastered  the 
whole  Russian  army  in  Asia — to  go  back — to  rise  from 
the  ghastly  hollows  of  Asia  and  turn  homeward 
again. 

It  leaped  like  a  demon  upon  the  unset  volition  of  the 
mass.  Full-formed,  it  arose  from  the  lull.  It  effected 
the  perfect  turning. 

Morning  saw  it,  and  wanted  the  source.  He  had 
planned  too  long  to  be  denied  now.  The  rout  was  big 
to  handle,  but  he  wanted  the  -front — a  glimpse  of  the 
actual  inimical  line.  It  was  not  enough  for  him  to  watch 
the  fright  and  havoc  streaming  back.  Calling  a  cheery 
adieu  to  Fallows,  he  bowed  against  the  current — alone 
obeying  the  Russian  Forward. 


10 

AT  the  edge  of  the  trampled  lane,  often  shunted  off 
into  the  standing  crop,  Morning  made  his  way, 
running  when  he  could.  .  .  .  The  pictures  were  in 
finite  ;  a  lifetime  of  pictures ;  hundreds  of  faces  and  each 
a  picture.  Men  passed  him,  heads  bowed,  arms  about 
their  faces,  like  figures  in  the  old  Dore  paintings,  run 
ning  from  the  wrath  of  the  Lord.  Here  and  there  was 


AFIELD  43 

pale  defiance.  Nine  sheepish  soldiers  carried  a  single 
wounded  man,  the  much-handled  fallen  one  looking  silly 
as  the  rest. 

The  utter  ghostliness  of  it  all  was  in  Morning's  mind. 
.  .  .  Gasping  for  breath,  after  many  minutes  of  run 
ning,  he  sank  down  to  rest.  Soldiers  sought  to  pick  him 
up  and  carry  him  back.  There  were  others  who  could 
not  live  with  themselves  after  the  first  panic.  They  fell 
out  of  the  retreat  to  join  him.  Others  stopped  to  fire — 
a  random  emptying  of  magazines  in  the  millet.  Certain 
groups  huddled  when  they  saw  him — mistaking  a  civilian 
for  an  officer — and  covered  their  faces.  Officers  begged, 
prayed  for  the  men  to  hold,  but  the  torrent  increased, 
individuals  diving  into  the  thick  of  the  grain  and  leaking 
around  behind.  White  showed  beneath  the  beards,  and 
white  lips  moved  in  prayer.  The  locked  bayonets  of  the 
Russians  had  never  seemed  so  dreadful  as  when  low-held 
in  the  grain.  .  .  .  One  beardless  boy  strode  back 
jauntily,  his  lips  puckered  in  a  whistle. 

The  marvelous  complexity  of  common  men — this  was 
the  sum  of  all  pictures,  and  the  great  realization  of  John 
Morning.  His  soul  saw  much  that  his  eyes  failed.  The 
day  was  a  marvelous  cabinet  of  gifts — secret  chambers 
to  be  opened  in  after  years. 

Now  he  was  running  low,  having  entered  the  zone  of 
fire.  He  heard  the  steel  in  the  grain ;  stems  were 
snapped  by  invisible  fingers ;  foxtails  lopped.  He  saw  the 
slow  leaning  of  stems  half-cut.  .  .  .  Among  the 
fallen,  on  a  rising  slope,  men  were  crawling  back ;  and 
here  and  there,  bodies  had  been  cast  off,  the  cloth-covered 
husks  of  poor  driven  peasants.  They  had  gone  back  to 
the  soil,  these  bodies,  never  really  belonging  to  the  sol 
diery.  It  was  only  when  they  writhed  that  John  Morn 
ing  forgot  himself  and  his  work.  The  art  of  the  dead 
was  consummate. 

The  grain  thinned.  He  had  come  to  the  end  of  Low- 
enkampf's  infantry.  It  had  taken  an  hour  and  a  half 


44  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

for  the  command  to  enter  in  order ;  less  than  a  half-hour 
to  dissipate.  The  rout  had  been  like  a  cloud-burst. 

And  this  was  the  battle.  (Morning  had  to  hold  fast 
to  the  thought.)  Long  had  he  waited  for  this  hour; 
months  he  had  constructed  the  army  in  his  story  for  this 
hour  of  demolition.  It  was  enough  to  know  that  Low- 
enkampf  had  failed.  Liaoyang,  the  battle,  was  lost. 
.  .  .  Old  Ritz  went  by  weeping — he  had  been  too  old, 
they  said;  they  had  not  wanted  him  to  take  his  regiment 
to  field.  Yet  he  was  perhaps  the  last  to  leave  the  field. 
Only  his  dead  remained,  and  Colonel  Ritz  was  not  weep 
ing  for  them.  .  .  . 

Now  Morning  saw  it  was  not  all  over.  Before  gain 
ing  the  ridge  swept  by  Kuroki's  fire,  he  knew  that  Mer- 
genthaler  was  still  fighting.  It  came  to  him  with  the 
earthy  rumble  of  cavalry.  To  the  left,  in  a  crevasse 
under  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  he  saw  a  knot  of  horses 
with  empty  saddles,  and  a  group  of  men.  Closer  to  them 
he  crawled,  along  the  sheltered  side  of  the  ridge,  until  in 
the  midst  of  Russian  officers,  he  saw  that  splendid  bruis 
ing  brute,  who  had  stamped  out  of  headquarters  that 
morning,  draining  the  heart  of  Lowenkampf  as  h'e  went. 
Mergenthaler  of  the  Cossacks — designed  merely  to  be 
the  eyes  and  fingers  of  the  fighting  force;  yet  unsup 
ported,  unbodied  as  it  were,  he  still  held  the  ridge. 

Kuroki,  as  yet  innocent  of  the  rout,  would  not  other 
wise  have  been  checked.  His  ponderous  infantry  was 
not  the  sort  to  be  stopped  by  these  light  harriers  of  the 
Russian  army.  The  Flanker  was  watching  for  the  Ham 
mer,  and  the  Hammer  already  had  been  shattered. 
.  .  .  Mergenthaler,  cursing,  handled  his  cavalry 
squadrons  to  their  death,  lightly  and  perfectly  as  coins 
in  his  palm.  Every  moment  that  he  stayed  the  Japanese, 
he  knew  well  that  he  was  holding  up  to  the  quick  scorn 
of  the  world  the  foot-soldiers  of  Lowenkampf,  whom  he 
hated.  His  head  was  lifted  above  the  rocks  to  watch  the 
field.  His  couriers  came  and  went,  slipping  up  and  down 


AFIELD  45 

through  the  thicker  timber,  still  farther  to  the  left. 
.  .  .  Morning  crawled  up  nearby  until  he  saw  the 
field — and  now  action,  more  abandoned  than  he  had  ever 
dared  to  dream : 

An  uncultivated  valley  strewn  with  rocks  and  low 
timber.  Three  columns  of  Japanese  infantry  pouring 
down  from  the  opposite  parallel  ridge,  all  smoky  with 
the  hideous  force  of  the  reserve — machine-guns,  and  a 
mile  of  rifles  stretching  around  to  the  right.  (It  was  this 
wing's  firing  that  had  started  the  havoc  in  the  grain.) 

Three  columns  of  infantry  pouring  down  into  the 
ancient  valley,  under  the  gray  stirring  sky — brown  col 
umns,  very  even  and  unhasting — and  below,  the  Cos 
sacks. 

Morning  lived  in  the  past  ages.  He  lay  between  two 
rocks  watching,  having  no  active  sense — but  pure  recep 
tivity.  Time  was  thrust  back.  .  .  .  Three  brown 
dragons  crawling  down  the  slopes  in  the  gray  day — 
knights  upon  horses  formed  to  slay  the  dragons. 

Out  of  the  sheltering  rocks  and  timber  they  rode — 
and  chose  the  central  dragon  quite  in  the  classic  way. 
It  turned  to  meet  the  knights  upon  horses — head  lifted, 
neck  swollen  like  the  nuchal  ribs  of  the  cobra.  In  the 
act  of  striking  it  was  ridden  down,  but  the  knights  were 
falling  upon  the  smashed  head.  The  mated  dragons  had 
attacked  from  either  side.  . 

It  was  a  fragment,  a  moving  upon  the  ground, — that 
company  of  knights  upon  horses, — and  the  Voice  of  it, 
all  but  deadened  by  the  rifles,  came  up  spent  and  pitiful. 

Mergenthaler's  thin,  high  voice  was  not  hushed.  He 
knew  how  to  detach  another  outfit  from  the  rocks  and 
timber-thickets,  already  found  by  the  Japanese  on  the 
ridge,  already  deluged  with  fire.  Out  from  the  betray 
ing  shelter,  the  second  charge,  a  new  child  of  disaster, 
ran  forth  to  strike  Kuroki's  left.  .  .  .  Parts  of  the 
film  were  elided.  The  cavalrymen  fell  away  by  a  terrible 
magic.  Again  the  point  thickened  and  drew  back,  met 


46  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

the  charge ;  again  the  welter  and  the  thrilling  back-sweep 
of  the  Russian  fragment. 

Morning  missed  something.  His  soul  was  listening 
for  something.  ...  It  was  comment  from  Duke 
Fallows,  so  long  marking  time  to  events.  .  .  .  He 
laughed.  He  was  glad  to  be  free,  yet  his  whole  inner 
life  drew  back  in  loathing  from  Mengenthaler — as  if  to 
rush  to  his  old  companion.  .  .  .  And  Mergenthaler 
turned — the  brown  high-boned  cheeks  hung  with  a  smile 
of  derision.  He  was  climbing  far  and  high  on  Lowen- 
fcampf's  shame.  ...  He  gained  the  saddle — this 
hard,  huge  Egoist,  the  staff  clinging  to  him,  and  over  the 
ridge  they  went  to  set  more  traps. 

The  wide,  rocking  shoulders  of  the  General  sank  into 
the  timber — as  he  trotted  with  his  aides  down  the  death- 
ridden  valley.  It  may  have  been  the  sight  of  this  little 
party  that  started  a  particular  machine-gun  on  the  Jap 
anese  right.  .  .  .  The  sizable  bay  the  chief  rode 
looked  like  a  polo-pony  under  the  mighty  frame.  Morn 
ing  did  not  see  him  fall :  only  the  plunging  bay  with  an 
empty  saddle ;  and  then  when  the  timber  opened  a  little, 
the  staff  carrying  the  leader  up  the  trail. 

It  was  the  mystery  which  delayed  the  Japanese,  not 
Mergenthaler.  When  at  last  Kuroki's  left  wing  contin 
ued  to  report  no  aggressive  movement  from  Bilderling 
river-ward;  and  when  continued  combing  in  the  north 
raised  nothing  but  bleak  hills  and  grain-valleys  hushed 
between  showers,  he  flooded  further  columns  down  the 
ridge,  and  slew  what  he  could  of  the  Russian  horsemen 
who  tried  with  absurd  heroism  to  block  his  way.  At  two 
in  the  afternoon  the  Flanker  fixed  his  base  among  the 
very  rocks  where  Morning  had  lain — and  the  next  posi 
tion  for  him  to  take  was  the  coal-hills  of  Yentai.  Only 
the  ghosts  of  the  cavalry  stood  between — and  kao  Hong. 

Morning  turned  back  a  last  time  to  the  fields  of  millet 
in  the  early  dusk.  He  had  been  waiting  for  Mergen 
thaler  to  die.  The  General  lay  in  the  very  go-down 


AFIELD  47 

where  he  had  outraged  Lowenkampf  that  morning;  and 
now  the  Japanese  were  driving  the  Russians  from  the 
position.  .  .  .  Mergenthaler  would  not  die.  They 
carried  him  to  a  coal-car,  and  soldiers  pushed  it  on  to 
Yentai,  the  station. 

The  Japanese  were  closing  in.  They  were  already  in 
the  northern  heights  contending  with  Stakelberg;  they 
were  stretched  out  bluffing  Bilderling  to  the  southward. 
They  were  locked  with  Zarubaieff  at  the  southern  front 
of  Liaoyang.  They  were  in  the  grain.  .  .  .  Cold 
and  soulless  Morning  felt,  as  one  who  has  failed  in  a 
great  temptation ;  as  one  who  has  lived  to  lose,  and  has 
not  been  spared  the  picture  of  his  own  eternal  failure. 

He  looked  back  a  last  time  at  the  grain  in  the  closing 
night.  The  Japanese  were  there,  brown  men,  native  to 
the  grain.  The  great  shadowed  field  had  whipped  Low 
enkampf  and  lost  the  battle.  It  lay  in  the  dusk  like  a 
woman,  trampled,  violated,  feebly  waving.  Rain-clouds 
came  with  darkness  to  cover  the  nakedness  and  bleeding. 


ii 

DUKE  Fallows  saw  but  one  face 
John  Morning  studied  a  thousand,  mastered  the 
heroism  of  the  Cossacks,  filled  his  brain  with  blood- 
pictures  and  the  incorrigible  mystery  of  common  men. 
Duke  Fallows  saw  but  one  face.  In  the  beauty  and 
purity  of  its  inspiration,  he  read  a  vile  secret  out  of  the 
past.  To  the  very  apocalypse  of  this  secret,  he  read  and 
understood.  The  shame  of  it  blackened  the  heavens  for 
his  eyes,  but  out  of  its  night  and  torment  came  a  Voice 
uttering  the  hope  of  the  human  spirit  for  coming  days. 

Morning  had  left.  Luban  had  put  on  bluster  and 
roaring.  Their  place  in  the  grain  was  now  broad  from 
trampling ;  the  flight  was  on  in  full.  It  meant  something; 
to  Fallows.  It  was  not  that  he  wanted  the  Japanese  to 
win  the  battle ;  the  doings  of  the  Japanese  were  of  little 


48  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

concern  to  him.  He  felt  curiously  that  the  Japanese 
were  spiritually  estranged  from  the  white  man.  Russia 
was  different ;  he  was  close  to  the  heart  of  the  real  Rus 
sia,  whose  battle  was  at  home.  Russia's  purpose  in  Asia 
was  black ;  he  was  full  of  scorn  for  the  purpose,  but  full 
of  love  for  the  troops.  Strange  gladness  was  upon  him 
— as  the  men  broke  away.  Reality  at  home  would  come 
from  this  disaster.  He  constructed  the  world's  battle 
from  it,  and  sang  his  song. 

One  soldier  running  haltingly  for  his  life  looked  up 
to  the  face  of  Luban  of  the  roaring  voice — and  laughed. 
Luban  turned,  and  perceived  that  Fallows  had  not  missed 
the  laugh  of  the  soldier.  This  incident,  now  closed,  was 
in  a  way  responsible  for  the  next. 

.  .  .  Out  of  the  grain  came  striding  a  tall  soldier 
of  the  ranks.  His  beard  was  black,  his  eyes  very  blue. 
In  his  eyes  was  a  certain  fire  that  kindled  the  nature  of 
Duke  Fallows  as  it  had  never  been  kindled  before,  not 
even  by  the  most  feminine  yielding.  The  man's  broad 
shoulders  were  thrust  back ;  his  face  clean  of  cowardice, 
clean  as  the  grain  and  as  open  to  the  sky.  His  head 
was  erect  and  bare ;  he  carried  no  gun,  scorned  the  pre 
tense  of  looking  for  wounded.  Had  he  carried  a  dinner- 
pail,  the  picture  would  have  been  as  complete — a  good 
man  going  home  from  a  full-testing  day. 

In  that  moment  Fallows  saw  more  than  from  the 
whole  line  before.  .  .  .  Here  was  a  conscript.  He 
had  been  taken  from  his  house,  forced  across  Europe  and 
Asia  to  this  hour.  The  reverse  of  his  persecutors  had 
set  him  free.  This  freedom  was  the  fire  in  his  eyes. 
.  .  .  v.They  had  torn  him  from  his  house;  they  had 
driven  and  brutalized  him  for  months.  And  now  they 
had  come  to  dreadful  disaster.  It  was  such  a  disaster  as 
a  plain  man  might  have  prayed  for.  He  had  prayed 
for  it  in  the  beginning,  but  in  the  long,  slow  gatherings 
for  battle,  in  the  terrible  displays  of  power,  he  had  lost 
.his  faith  to  pray.  Yet  the  plain  man's  God  had  an- 


AFIELD  49 

swered  that  early  prayer.  This  was  the  brightness  of  the 
burning  in  the  blue  eyes. 

His  persecutors  had  been  shamed  and  undone.  He 
had  seen  his  companions  dissipate,  his  sergeants  run ; 
seen  his  captains  fail  to  hold.  The  great  force  that  had 
tortured  him,  that  had  seemed  the  world  in  strength,  was 
now  broken  before  his  eyes.  Its  mighty  muscles  were 
writhing,  their  strength  running  down.  The  love  of  God 
was  splendid  in  the  ranker's  heart ;  the  breath  of  home 
had  come.  The  turning  in  the  grain — was  a  turning 
homeward. 

All  this  Fallows  saw.  It  was  illumination  to  him — 
the  hour  of  his  great  reception. 

Luban,  just  insulted  by  the  other  infantryman,  now 
faced  the  big,  blithe  presence,  emerging  unhurried  from 
the  grain.  Luban  raised  his  voice: 

"And  what  are  you  sneaking  back  for?" 

"I  am  not  sneaking " 

"Rotten  soldier  stuff — you  should  be  shot  down." 

"I  am  not  a  soldier — I  am  a  ploughman." 

"You  are  here  to  fight " 

"They  forced  me  to  come — — " 

"Forced  you  to  fight  for  your  Fatherland?" 

"This  is  not  my  Fatherland,  but  a  strange  coun- 
try " 

"You  are  here  for  the  Fatherland " 


"I  have  six  children  in  Russia.  The  Fatherland  is 
not  feeding  them.  My  field  is  not  ploughed." 

The  talk  had  crackled ;  it  had  required  but  a  few 
seconds ;  Luban  had  done  it  all  for  Fallows  to  see  and 
hear — but  Fallows  was  very  far  from  observing  the  pose 
of  that  weakling.  The  Ploughman  held  him  heart  and 
soul — as  did  the  infallible  and  instantly  unerring  truth 
of  his  words.  The  world's  poor,  the  world's  degraded, 
had  found  its  voice. 

The  man  was  white  with  truth,  like  a  priest  of  Mel- 
chizedek. 


50 

Luban  must  have  broken  altogether.  Fallows,  listen 
ing,  watching  the  Ploughman  with  his  soul,  did  not  turn. 
.  .  .  Now  the  man's  face  changed.  The  lips  parted 
strangely,  the  eyelids  b'fting.  Whiteness  wavered  between 
the  eyes  of  the  Ploughman  and  the  eyes  of  Duke  Fal 
lows.  Luban's  pistol  crashed  and  the  man  fell  with  a 
sob. 

Fallows  was  kneeling  among  the  soaked  roots  of  the 
millet,  holding  the  soldier  in  his  arms : 

"Living  God,  to  die  for  you — you,  who  are  so  straight 
and  so  young.  .  .  .  Hear  me — don't  go  yet — I  must 
have  your  name,  Brother.  .  .  .  Luban  did  not  know 
you — he  is  just  a  little  sick  man — he  didn't  know  you  or 
he  wouldn't  have  done  this.  .  .  .  Tell  me  your  name 
.  .  .  and  the  place  of  your  babes,  and  their  mother. 
.  .  .  Oh,  be  sure  they  shall  be  fed — glad  and  proud 
am  I  to  do  that  easy  thing!  .  .  .  You  have  shown  me 
the  Nearer  God.  .  .  .  They  shall  be  fed,  and  they 
shall  hear !  The  world,  cities  and  nations,  all  who  suffer, 
shall  hear  what  the  Ploughman  said — the  soul  of  the 
Ploughman,  who  is  the  hope  of  the  world.  .  .  .  You 
have  spoken  for  Russia.  .  .  .  And  now  rest — rest, 
Big  Brother — you  have  done  your  work." 

The  soldier  looked  up  to  him.  There  had  been  pain 
and  wrenching,  the  vision  of  a  desolated  house.  Now, 
his  eyes  rested  upon  the  American.  The  shadow  of  death 
lifted.  He  saw  his  brother  in  the  eyes  that  held  him — 
his  brother,  and  it  seemed,  the  Son  of  Man  smiled  there 
behind  the  tears.  ...  He  smiled  back  like  a  weary 
child.  Peace  came  to  him,  lustrous  from  the  shadow, 
for  lo !  his  field  was  ploughed  and  children  sang  in  his 
house. 

Fallows  had  not  risen  from  his  knees.  He  was  talk 
ing  to  himself : 

".  .  .  Out  of  the  grain  he  came — the  soul  of  the 
Ploughman.  And  gently  he  spoke  to  us  .  .  .  and 


AFIELD  51 

this  is  the  day  of  the  battle.  I  came  to  the  battle — and 
I  go  to  carry  his  message  to  the  poor — to  those  who 
labor — to  Russia  and  the  America  of  the  future.  Luban. 
spoke  the  thought  of  the  world,  but  the  Ploughman  spoke 
for  humanity  risen.  He  spoke  for  the  women,  and  for 
the  poor.  .  .  .  Bright  he  came  from  the  grain — 
bright  and  unafraid — and  those  shall  hear  him,  who  suf 
fer  and  are  heavy-laden.  This  is  the  battle!  .  .  . 
And  his  voice  came  to  me — a  great  and  gracious  voice — 
for  tsars  and  kings  and  princes  to  hear — and  I  am  to 
carry  his  message.  .  .  ." 

Luban  laughed  feebly  at  last,  and  Fallows  looked  up 
to  him. 

"You'll  hear  him  in  your  passing,  Luban,  poor  lad. 
You'll  hear  him  in  your  hell.  Until  you  are  as  simple 
and  as  pure  as  this  Ploughman — you  shall  hear  and  see 
all  this  again.  Though  you  should  hang  by  the  neck  to 
night,  Luban, — this  picture  would  go  out  with  you.  For 
this  is  the  hour  you  killed  your  Christ." 


12 

LOWENKAMPF  was  the  name  that  meant  defeat. 
Lowenkampf — it  was  like  the  rain  that  night. 
.  .  .  "Lowenkampf  started  out  too  soon."  .  .  . 
Morning  heard  it.  Fallows  heard  it.  The  coughing  sen 
tries  heard  it.  The  whole  dismal  swamp  of  drenched, 
whipped  soldiery  heard  it.  Sleek  History  had  awakened 
to  grasp  it ;  Kuropatkin  had  washed  his  hands.  .  .  . 
Lowenkampf  had  started  out  too  soon  that  morning.  The 
Siberians  had  only  left  Yentai  Station  proper  when  Low 
enkampf  set  forth  from  the  Coal-heights.  Had  his  sup 
ports  been  in  position  (very  quickly  and  clearly  the 
world's  war-experts  would  see  this)  the  rout  in  the  grain 
would  have  been  checked. 

As  it  was,  many  of  Lowenkampf's  soldiers  had  run 
the  entire  ten  miles  from  the  heights  to  the  station,  Yen- 


52  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

tai — after  emerging  from  kao-liang — evading  the  Sibe 
rian  supports  as  they  ran,  as  chaos  flies  from  order. 
Now  in  the  darkness  (with  Kuroki  bivouacked  upon  the 
main  trophy  of  the  day,  the  Coal-heights)  the  shamed 
battalions  of  Lowenkampf  re-formed  along  the  main  line 
in  the  midst  of  their  unused  reserves. 

The  day  had  been  like  a  month  of  fever  to  Morning, 
but  Duke  Fallows  was  a  younger  man,  and  a  stranger 
that  night.  .  .  .  Morning  tried  to  work,  but  he  was 
too  close  to  it  all,  too  tired.  It  was  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  tell  of  a  misfortune  that  had  no  beginning,  and  whose 
every  phase  was  his  own  heart's  concern.  His  weariness 
was  like  the  beginning  of  death — coldness  and  pervading 
ennui.  Against  his  will  he  was  gathered  in  the  glowing 
currents  of  Duke  Fallows — watching,  listening,  not  pre 
tending  even  to  understand,  but  borne  along.  Together 
they  went  in  to  the  General's  private  room.  Lowenkampf 
looked  up,  gathered  himself  with  difficulty  and  smiled. 
Fallows  turned  to  Morning,  asked  him  to  stand  by  the 
door,  then  strode  forward  and  knelt  by  the  General's 
knees.  It  did  not  seem  extraordinary  to  Morning — so 
much  was  insane. 

"You  were  chosen,  old  friend.  It  has  been  a  big  day 
for  the  under-dog " 

"I  have  lost  Liaoyang." 

"That  was  written." 

"My  little  boy  will  hear  it  in  the  street.  He  will  hear 
it  in  the  school.  Before  he  is  a  man — he  will  hear  it." 

"I  shall  take  him  upon  my  knee.  I  shall  tell  him  of 
you  in  a  way  that  he  shall  never  forget.  And  his  mother 
—I  shall  tell  her " 

Lowenkampf  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"I  have  business  in  Russia.  This  day  I  heard  what 
must  be  done.  It  is  almost  as  if  I  had  gotten  to  be  a 
man." 

Fallows  leaned  back  laughingly,  his  arms  extended, 
as  if  pushing  the  other's  knees  from  him. 


AFIELD  53 

Some  inner  wall  broke,  and  the  General  wept.  Morn 
ing  put  his  foot  against  the  door.  The  thought  in  his 
heart  was :  "This  is  something  I  cannot  write."  .  .  . 
Morning  held  the  idea  coldly  now  that  Fallows  was 
mentally  softened  from  the  strain.  Other  things  came  up 
to  support  it  .  .  .  He,  too,  had  seen  a  soldier  shot 
by  an  officer.  It  was  discipline.  At  best,  it  was  but  one  of 
the  thousand  pictures.  It  had  happened  less  because  the 
man  was  retiring  without  a  wound — thousands  were  do 
ing  that — than  because  the  man  answered  back,  when  the 
officer  spoke.  He  did  not  hear  what  the  soldier  said. 
This  soldier  possibly  had  trans-Baikal  children,  too.  The 
day  and  his  long  illness  had  crazed  Fallows,  now  at  the 
knees  of  the  man  who  had  lost  the  battle. 

"...  I  know  what  you  thought  this  morning — 
when  you  saw  your  men  march  down  into  the  grain," 
Fallows  was  saying  to  the  General.  "You  thought  of 
your  little  boy  and  his  mother.  You  thought  of  the 
babes  and  wives  and  mothers — of  those  soldiers  of  yours 
whom  you  were  sending  to  the  front.  You  didn't  want 
to  send  them  out.  You're  too  close  to  becoming  a  man 
for  that.  You  wondered  if  you  would  not  have  to  suffer 
for  sending  them  out  so — and  if  this  particular  suffering 
would  not  have  to  do  with  your  little  boy  and  his 
mother — 

"My  God,  stop,  Fallows— 

"You  had  to  think  that.  You  wouldn't  be  Lowen- 
kampf  if  you  failed  to  think  that.  ...  I  love  you 
for  it,  old  friend.  Big  things  will  come  from  Lowen- 
kampf,  and  from  the  conscript  who  came  to  me  out  of 
the  grain  with  vision  and  a  voice.  The  battle  at  home 
won't  be  so  hard  to  win — now  that  this  is  lost." 

There  was  a  challenge  and  heavy  steps  on  the  plat 
form — and  one  low,  hurried  voice. 

Lowenkampf  stood  up  and  wiped  his  eyes. 

"The  Commander —     "  he  whispered. 

A  pair  of   captains  towered  above   him,   a  grizzled 


54  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

colonel  behind;  then  Morning  saw  the  gray  of  the  short 
beard,  and  the  dark,  dry-burning  of  unblinking  eyes, 
fixed  upon  Lowenkampf.  .  .  .  The  latter's  shoul 
ders  drooped  a  little,  and  his  eyes  lowered  deprecatingly 
for  just  an  instant.  Kuropatkin  passed  in.  The  soft 
fullness  of  his  shoulders  was  like  a  woman's.  Fleshly 
and  failing,  he  looked,  from  behind.  .  .  .  The  Amer 
icans  waited  outside  with  the  colonel  and  captains.  The 
door  was  shut 

Midnight.  .  .  .  Fallows  and  Morning  had  moved 
in  the  rain  among  the  different  commands.  The  army 
at  Yentai  seemed  to  be  emerging  from  prolonged  anaes 
thesia  to  find  itself  missing  in  part  and  strangely  dis 
ordered.  It  was  afraid  to  sleep,  afraid  to  think  of  it 
self,  and  denied  drink.  Fallows  had  told  everywhere  the 
story  of  the  Ploughman ;  just  now  he  helped  himself  to 
a  bundle  of  Morning's  Chinese  parchment,  and  was  writ 
ing  copy  in  long-hand. 

His  head  was  bowed,  his  eyes  expressionless. 

"And  I  alone  remain  to  tell  thee!"  he  muttered  at 
last. 

Morning  did  not  answer,  but  resigned  himself  to  hear 
more  of  the  Messiah  who  came  out  of  the  grain. 

"I  told  one  of  Mergenthaler's  aides  the  story,"  Fal 
lows  said  coldly.  "He  said  it  was  quite  the  proper  thing 
to  do — to  shoot  down  a  man  who  was  leaving  the  field 
unwounded.  I  told  Manlewson  of  the  First  Siberians, 
who  replied  that  the  Russians  would  begin  to  win  battles 
when  they  murdered  all  such,  as  unflinchingly  and  in 
stantly  as  the  Japanese  did,  and  hospital  malingerers  as 
well.  I  told  Bibinoff  (who  is  Luban's  captain),  and  he 
said:  'That's  the  first  good  thing  I  ever  heard  about 
Luban.'  He  was  pleased  and  epigrammatic.  .  .  ." 

Fallows  stood  up — his  face  was  in  shadow,  so  far  be 
neath  was  the  odorous  lamp. 

"Living  God — I  can't  make  them  see — I  can't 
make  them  see!  They're  all  enchanted.  Or  else  I'm 


AFIELD  55 

dead  and  this  is  hell.  .  .  .  They  talk  about  Country. 
They  talk  about  making  a  man  stand  in  a  place  of  sure 
death  for  his  Country — in  this  Twentieth  Century — when 
war  has  lost  its  last  vestige  of  meaning  to  the  man  in  the 
ranks,  and  his  Country  is  a  thing  of  rottenness  and  moral 
desolation !  What  is  the  Country  to  the  man  in  the 
ranks  ?  A  group  of  corrupt,  inbred  undermen  who  study 
to  sate  themselves — to  tickle  and  soften  themselves — with 
the  property  and  blood  and  slavery  of  the  poor.  .  .  . 
A  good  man,  a  clean  man,  is  torn  from  his  house  to 
fight,  to  stand  in  the  fire-pits  and  die  for  such  monsters. 
Suddenly  the  poor  man  sees ! 

".  .  .  He  came  forth  from  the  grain  with  vision — 
smiling  and  unafraid.  He  is  not  afraid  to  fight,  but  he 
has  found  himself  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  battle.  When 
he  fights  again  it  will  be  for  his  child,  for  his  house,  for 
his  brother,  for  his  woman,  for  his  soul.  Blood  in  plenty 
has  he  for  such  a  war.  .  .  .  Think  of  it,  John  Morn 
ing,  the  Empire  was  entrusted  to  poor  little  Luban — 
against  this  man  of  vision !  He  came  forth  smiling  from 
the  grain.  7  do  not  belong  here,  my  masters.  I  was 
torn  away  from  my  woman  and  children,  and  I  must  be 
home  for  the  winter  ploughing.  It  is  a  long  zvay — 
and  I  must  be  off.  I  am  a  ploughman,  not  a  soldier.  I 
belong  to  my  children  and  my  field.  My  country  does 
not  plough  m\  field — does  not  feed  my  children.  .  . 
What  could  Luban  do  but  kill  him — little  agent  of 
Herod  ?  But  the  starry  child  lives !  .  .  . 

"And  listen,  John,  to-night — you  heard  them — we 
heard  these  fat-necked,  vulture-breasted  commanders — 
vain,  envy-poisoned,  scandal-mongering  commanders, 
complaining  to  each  other:  'See,  what  stuff  has  been 
given  us  to  win  battles  with !  .  .  .  I  have  told  it  and 
they  cannot  see.  They  are  not  even  good  devils ;  they 
are  not  decent  devourers.  They  have  no  humor — that  is 
their  deadly  sin.  An  adult,  half-human  murderer,  seeing 
his  soldiers  leave  the  field,  would  cry  aloud,  'Hello,  you 


56  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Innocents — so  you  have  wakened  up  at  last !'  But  these 
cannot  see.  Their  eyes  are  stuck  together.  It  is  their 
deadly  sin — the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost — to  lack 
humor  to  this  extent !" 

Morning  laughed  strangely.  "Come  on  to  bed,  you 
old  anarchist,"  he  said,  though  sleep  was  far  from  his 
own  eyes. 

"That's  it,  John.  Anarchy.  In  the  name  of  Father 
land,  Russia  murders  a  hundred  thousand  workmen  out 
here  in  Asia.  In  answer,  a  few  men  and  women  gather 
together  in  a  Petersburg  cellar,  saying,  'We  are  fools,  not 
heroes.  When  we  fight  again  it  will  be  for  Our  Coun 
try!'  And  they  are  anarchists — their  cause  is  Terror 
ism!" 

"We're  all  shot  to  pieces  to-night,  Duke " 

"We  are  alive,  John.  Lowenkampf  is  alive.  But  he 
who  spoke  to  me  this  day,  who  came  forth  so  blithely  to 
die  in  my  arms  (his  woman  sleeps  ill  to-night  in  the 
midst  of  her  babes),  and  he  is  lying  out  in  the  rain,  his 
face  turned  up  to  the  rain.  God  damn  the  fat  reptile 
that  calls  itself  Fatherland !  .  .  .  But,  I  say  to  you, 
that  we're  come  nearly  to  the  end  of  the  prince  and 
pauper  business  on  this  planet.  The  soul  of  the  Plough 
man  was  heard  to-day — as  long  ago  they  heard  the  Soul 
of  the  Carpenter.  .  .  .  He  is  lying  out  there  in  the 
millet — his  face  turned  up  to  the  rain.  Yet  I  say  to  you, 
John,  there's  more  life  in  him  this  hour  than  in  his  Tsar 
and  all  the  princes  of  the  blood." 

Fallows  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"You're  tired  and  thick  to-night,  John,  but  you  are 
one  who  must  see  !"  he  finished  passionately.  "You  must 
help  me  tell  the  story  to  the  cellar  gatherings  in  Peters 
burg,  to  the  secret  meetings  in  all  the  centers  of  misery, 
wherever  a  few  are  gathered  together  in  the  name  of 
Brotherhood — in  New  York,  London,  Paris,  and  Berlin. 
.  .  .  You  must  help  me  to  make  other  men  see — help 
me  to  tell  this  thing  so  that  the  world  will  hear  it,  and 


AFIELD  57 

with  such  power  that  the  world  will  be  unable  longer 
to  lie  to  itself. 

"I  can  see  it  now — how  Jesus,  the  Christ,  tried  to 
make  men  see.  .  .  .  That  was  His  Gethsemane — 
that  He  could  not  make  men  see.  I  tell  you  it  is  a  God's 
work — and  it  came  to  Jesus,  the  Christ,  at  last — 'If  they 
crucify  me,  perhaps,  a  few  will  see!'  .  .  .  I'm  going 
over  to  Russia,  John,  to  learn  how  to  tell  them  better." 


13 

THE  night  of  the  third  of  September,  and  John 
Morning  is  off  for  the  big  adventure.  Between 
the  hills,  the  roads  are  a-stream.  .  .  .  All  day  he 
had  watched  different  phases  of  the  retreat.  Fighting 
back  in  the  city ;  fighting  here  and  there  along  the  stag 
gering,  burdened,  cruelly-punished  line ;  a  sudden  break 
ing-out  of  fighting  in  a  dozen  places  like  hidden  fires ; 
rain  and  wounded  and  seas  of  mud;  the  gray  intolerable 
misery  of  it  all ;  the  sick  and  the  dead — Morning  was 
glutted  with  the  colossal  derangement.  And  they  called 
it  an  orderly  retreat. 

He  was  riding  the  sorrel  Eve  out  of  the  zone  of  war. 
The  battle  was  behind  him  now,  and  he  breathed  the 
world  again.  He  had  something  to  tell.  Liaoyang  was 
in  his  brain.  He  was  off  for  the  ships  that  sail.  A  month 
— America — the  great  story.  .  .  .  He  felt  the  manu 
script  against  him.  It  was  in  a  Chinese  belt,  with  money 
for  the  passage  home,  tight  against  his  body,  a  hundred 
thousand  words  done  on  Chinese  parchment  and  wrapped 
in  oil-skin.  The  book  of  Liaoyang — he  had  earned  it. 
He  had  written  it  against  the  warping  cynicism  of  Duke 
Fallows.  On  the  ship  he  could  reshape  and  renew  it 
all  into  a  master-picture. 

It  had  been  easier  than  he  thought  to  break  away 
from  Fallows,  his  friend.  The  latter  was  whelmed  in 


58  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

the  soul  of  the  Ploughman.  A  big  story,  of  course,  as 
Fallows  saw  it — but  there  were  scores  of  big  stories. 
It  would  ruin  it  to  let  an  anarchist  tell  it.  Suppose 
officers  in  general  did  stop  to  listen  to  troops  sneaking 
off  the  field? 

Duke  had  given  him  a  letter,  and  a  story  for  the 
Western  States.  The  first  was  not  to  be  read  until  he 
was  at  sea  out  from  Japan.  When  Morning  spoke  of 
the  money  he  owed,  the  other  had  put  the  thought  away. 
Sometime  he  would  call  for  it  if  he  needed  it ;  it  was  a 
trifle  anyway.  ...  It  hadn't  been  a  trifle.  It  had 
meant  everything. 

Morning  was  glad  to  breathe  himself  again.  Yet 
there  was  an  ache  in  his  heart  for  Duke  Fallows,  now 
off  for  Europe  the  western  way.  He,  Morning,  had  not 
done  his  part.  He  hadn't  given  as  he  had  taken;  had 
not  kept  close  to  Duke  Fallows  at  the  last.  There  was 
a  big  score  that  money  could  never  settle.  Soundly  glad 
to  be  alone,  but  in  the  very  gladness  the  picture  of  Duke 
Fallows  returned — lying  on  his  back,  in  bunks  and  berths 
and  beds,  staring  up  at  the  ceiling,  accentuating  his  own 
failures  to  bring  out  the  hopeful  and  valorous  parts  of 
his  friend.  It  was  always  such  a  picture  to  Morning, 
when  Fallows  came  to  mind — staring,  dreaming,  looking 
up  from  his  back.  It  had  seemed  sometimes  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  make  of  his  friend  all  that  he  had  failed 
to  be.  ...  Yet  the  Duke  Fallows  of  the  last 
twenty-four  hours,  wild,  dithyrambic — had  been  too 
much.  .  .  .  Again  and  again,  irked  and  heavy  with 
his  own  limitations,  Morning's  brain  had  seized  upon  the 
weakness  of  the  other,  to  condone  his  own  slowness  of 
understanding.  ...  It  may  have  been  Eve,  and 
her  relation  to  the  Fallows  revelation,  or  it  may  have 
been  putting  hideous  militarism  behind,  that  made  John 
Morning  think  of  Women  now  as  he  rode,  and  a  little 
differently  from  ever  before.  .  .  .  Certain  laughing 
sentences  of  Duke  Fallows  came  back  to  him  presently, 


AFIELD  59 

with  a  point  he  seemed  to  have  missed  when  they  were 
uttered : 

"We  have  our  devils,  John.  You  have  ambition ; 
Lowenkampf  has  drink;  Mergenthaler  has  slaughter. 
.  .  .  You  will  love  a  woman ;  you  already  drink  too 
readily,  but  Ambition  will  stand  in  your  house  and  fight 
from  room  to  room  at  the  last — and  over  the  premises 
to  the  last  ditch.  He's  a  grand  devil — is  Ambition. 
.  .  My  devil,  John?  Well,  it  isn't  the  big-jawed 
male  who  loves  a  woman  as  she  dreams  to  be  loved. 
It's  the  man  with  a  touch  of  women  in  him — just  enough 
to  begin  upon  her  mystery.  .  .  .  When  I  hear  a  cer 
tain  woman's  voice,  or  see  a  certain  passing  figure — 
something  old,  very  old  and  wise,  stirs  within,  seems  to 
stir  and  thrill  with  eternal  life.  And,  John,  it  isn't  low 
— the  thought.  I'd  tell  you  if  it  were.  It  isn't  low.  It's 
as  regal  as  Mother  Nature  in  a  valley,  on  a  long  after 
noon.  It  isn't  that  I  want  to  hurt  her ;  it  isn't  that  I 
want  something  she  has.  Rather,  I  want  all  she  has ! 
I  want  her  mind ;  I  want  her  soul ;  I  want  her  full  ani 
mations.  I  \vant  to  make  her  yield  and  give ;  I  want  to 
feel  her  battle  with  herself,  not  to  yield  and  give.  .  . 
Oh,  the  flesh  is  nothing.  It  is  the  cheapest  thing  in  the 
world — but  her  giving,  her  yielding — it's  like  an  ocean 
tide.  It  breaks  every  bond;  it  laughs  at  every  law. 
Power  seems  to  rush  into  a  woman  when  she  yields ! 
That's  the  conquest  of  my  heart — to  feel  that  power. 
.  .  .  All  devils  are  young  compared  to  that  in  a  man's 
heart — all  but  one,  and  that  is  the  passion  to  hold  spir 
itual  dominion  over  other  men." 

Morning's  mind  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  allowing 
much  for  the  other's  sayings — of  accepting  much  as 
mere  facility.  .  .  .  Thus  he  thought  as  he  traveled 
in  the  rain,  Eve's  swift,  springy  trot  a  stimulus  to  deep 
thinking ;  and  always  there  was  a  bigger  and  finer  John 
Morning  shadowing  him,  fathoming  his  smallnesses, 
wondering  at  his  puny  rebellions  and  vain  desires.  It 


60  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

was  in  this  fairer  John  Morning,  so  tragically  unex 
pressed  during  the  past  few  months,  that  the  pang  lived 
— the  pang  of  parting  from  his  friend. 

Morning  was  terrific  physically.  The  thing  he  was 
now  doing  was  as  spectacular  a  bit  of  newspaper  service 
as  ever  correspondent  undertook  in  Asia ;  and  yet,  to 
John  Morning  the  high  light  of  achievement  fell  upon 
the  manuscript,  not  upon  the  action.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  him  to  be  afraid.  If  he  could  get  across  the  ninety 
miles  to  Koupangtze — through  the  Hun  huises,  through 
the  Japanese  scouting  cavalry,  across  two  large  and 
many  smaller  yellow  rivers — and  reach  the  railroad,  he 
would  quickly  get  a  ship  for  Japan  from  Tientsin  or 
Tongu — and  from  Japan — home.  .  .  .  He  was  do 
ing  it  for  himself — passionately  and  with  no  sense  of 
splendor. 

Fallows  had  been  so  sure  of  his  friend's  physical 
courage,  that  he  made  no  point  of  it,  in  the  expression 
of  attachment.  .  .  .  He  had  called  it  vision  at  first, 
this  thing  that  had  drawn  him  to  John  Morning — a  touch 
of  the  poet,  a  touch  of  the  feminine — others  might  have 
called  it.  No  matter  the  name,  he  had  seen  it,  as  all 
artists  of  the  expression  of  the  inner  life  recognize  it  in 
one  another;  and  Fallows  knew  well  that  where  the 
courage  of  the  soldier  ends,  the  courage  of  the  visionary 
begins. 

Morning  was  a  trifle  peculiar,  however.  Unless  it 
sank  utterly,  he  stuck  to  a  ship,  until  the  horizon  re 
vealed  another  sail. 

He  had  come  up  through  the  dark.  The  world  had 
grounded  him  deeply  in  illusion.  Most  brilliant  of  prom 
ises — even  Fallows  had  not  seen  him  that  first  day  in 
too  bright  a  dawn — but  he  learned  hard.  And  his  had 
been  close  fighting — such  desperate  fighting  that  one  does 
not  hear  voices,  and  one  is  too  deep  in  the  ruck  to  see  the 
open  distance.  .  .  .  Much  as  he  had  been  alone — 
the  world  had  invariably  shattered  his  silences.  Always 


AFIELD  6 1 

he  had  worked — worked,  worked  furiously,  angrily,  for 
himself.  .  .  .  He  was  taught  so.  The  world  had 
caught  him  as  a  child  in  his  brief,  pitiful  tenderness. 
The  world  was  his  Eli.  As  from  sleep,  he  had  heard 
Reality  calling.  He  had  risen  to  answer,  but  the  false 
Eli  had  spoken — an  Eli  that  did  not  teach  him  truly  to 
listen,  nor  to  say,  when  he  heard  the  Voice  another  time 
— "Speak,  Lord,  for  thy  servant  heareth." 

14 

THE  Taitse,  of  large  and  ancient  establishment,  runs 
westward  from  Liaoyang  for  twenty-five  miles, 
and  in  a  well-earned  bed,  portions  of  which  are  worn 
in  the  rock.  Morning  rode  along  the  north  bank,  thus 
avoiding  altogether  a  crossing  of  the  Taitse,  since  his 
journey  continued  westward  from  the  point  where  the 
river  took  its  southward  bend.  From  thence  it  paralleled 
the  Hun  in  a  race  to  join  the  Liao.  The  main  stem  of 
the  latter  was  beyond  the  Hun,  and  these  two  arteries  of 
Asia  broke  Morning's  trail.  Fording  streams  of  such 
magnitude  was  out  of  the  question,  and  there  was  a 
strong  chance  of  an  encounter  with  the  Hun  huises  at 
the  ferries.  .  .  . 

Rain,  and  the  sorrel's  round  hoofs  sucked  sharply  in 
the  clay.  She  had  no  shoes  to  lose  in  these  drawing 
vacuums.  The  scent  of  her  came  up  warm  and  good  to 
the  horse-lover.  Alone  on  a  road,  she  had  always  been 
manageable,  hating  crowds  and  noise — soldiers,  Chinese, 
and  accoutrements.  Perhaps,  this  was  merely  a  biding 
of  time.  Eve  had  a  fine  sense  of  keeping  a  strange  road. 
This  was  not  usual,  although  a  horse  travels  a  familiar 
road  in  the  darkness  better  than  a  man.  These  two 
worked  well  together. 

By  map  the  distance  from  Liaoyang  to  Koupangtse 
was  seventy  miles.  Morning  counted  upon  ninety,  at 
least.  The  Manchurian  roads  are  old  and  odd  as  the 


62  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Oriental  mind.  ...  He  passed  the  southward  bend 
of  the  big  river,  and  at  daybreak  reached  Chiensen,  ten 
miles  beyond,  on  the  Hun. 

Chiensen,  unavoidable  on  account  of  the  ferry,  was 
a  danger-point.  Japanese  cavalry,  it  was  reported,  fre 
quently  lit  there,  and  the  Hun  huises  (Chinese  river- 
pirates  and  thieves  in  general,  whom  Alexieff  designated 
well  as  "the  scourge  of  Manchuria")  were  at  base  in 
this  village.  ...  In  the  gray  he  found  junks,  a  flat 
tow  and  landing. 

You  never  know  what  Chinese  John  is  going  to  do. 
If  you  have  but  little  ground  of  language  between  you, 
he  will  take  his  own  way,  on  the  pretext  of  misunder 
standing.  Morning's  idea  was  to  get  across  quickly, 
without  arousing  the  river-front.  He  awoke  the  ferry 
man,  placing  three  silver  taels  in  his  hand.  (He  carried 
silver,  enough  native  currency  to  get  him  to  Japan,  his 
passport,  and  the  two  large  envelopes  Duke  Fallows  had 
given  him,  in  the  hip-pockets  of  his  riding  breeches.) 
The  ferryman  had  no  thought  of  making  the  first  cross 
ing  without  tea.  Morning  labored  with  him,  and  with 
seeming  effect  for  a  moment,  but  the  other  fell  sud 
denly  from  grace  and  aroused  his  family.  He  was  not 
delicate  about  it.  Morning  resigned  himself  to  the  de 
lay,  and  was  firmly  persuading  Eve  to  be  moderate,  as 
she  drank  from  the  river's  edge,  when  Chinese  John 
suddenly  aroused  the  river  population.  Standing  well 
out  on  the  tow-flat,  he  trumpeted  at  some  comrade  of 
the  night  before,  apparently  no  less  than  a  hundred  yards 
up  the  river.  There  were  sleepy  answers  from  many 
junks  within  range  of  the  voice.  It  was  the  one  hateful 
thing  to  John  Morning — yet  to  rough  it  with  the  ferry 
man  for  his  point  of  view  would  be  the  only  thing  vrorse. 

The  landing  was  rickety;  its  jointure  with  the  tow- 
boat  imperfect.  The  American  took  off  his  coat,  tossed 
it  over  the  sorrel's  head,  tying  the  sleeves  under  her 
throat.  She  stiffened  in  rebellion,  but  as  the  darkness 


AFIELD  63 

was  as  yet  little  broken  by  the  day,  she  decided  to  accept 
the  situation.  Morning  felt  her  growing  reluctance, 
however,  as  she  traversed  the  creaking,  springy  boards. 
The  crevasse  between  the  landing  and  the  craft  was 
bridged ;  and  the  latter,  grounded  on  the  shore-side,  did 
not  give.  The  mare  stood  in  the  center  of  the  tow, 
sweating  and  tense. 

Numerous  Chinese  were  now  abroad — eager,  even  in 
sistent,  to  help.  Their  voices  stirred  the  mare  to  her 
old  red-eyed  insanity.  Morning  could  hold  himself  no 
longer.  Once  or  twice  before  in  his  life  this  hard,  bright 
light  had  come  to  his  brain.  Though  the  exterior  light 
was  imperfect,  the  ferryman  saw  the  fingers  close  upon 
the  butt  of  the  gun,  and  something  of  the  American's 
look.  He  dropped  his  tea,  sprang  to  the  junk  and  pulled 
up  the  bamboo-sail.  This  was  used  to  hold  the  tow 
against  the  current. 

Two  natives  in  the  flat-boat  stood  ready  with  poles. 
And  now  the  ferryman  spoke  in  a  surprised  and  disap 
pointed  way  as  he  toiled  in  front.  He  seemed  ready  to 
burst  into  tears  ;  and  the  two  nearer  Morning  grunted 
in  majors  and  minors,  according  to  temperament.  The 
American  considered  that  it  might  all  be  innocent,  al 
though  the  voices  were  many  from  the  town-front.  Pol 
ing  began ;  the  tow  drew  off  from  the  landing.  Clear 
from  the  grounding  of  the  shore,  the  craft  sank  windily 
to  its  balance  in  the  stream. 

This  was  too  much  for  Eve.  Her  devil  was  in  the 
empty  saddle.  She  leaped  up  pawing.  The  two  Chi 
nese  at  the  poles  dived  over  side  abruptly.  Water 
splashed  Eve's  flanks,  and  she  veered  about  on  her  hind 
feet — blinded  and  striking  the  air  in  front.  The  wobble 
of  the  tow  now  finished  her  frenzy — and  back  she  went 
into  the  stream.  The  saddle  saved  her  spine  from  a 
gash  on  the  edge  of  the  tow.  Morning  had  this  thought 
when  Eve  arose ;  that  he  need  fear  no  treachery  from  the 
Chinese ;  and  this  as  she  fell — a  queer,  cool,  laughing 


64  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

thought — that  after  such  a  fall  she  would  never  walk  like 
a  man  again. 

He  had  been  forced  to  drop  the  bridle,  but  caught  it 
luckily  with  one  of  the  poles  as  she  came  up  struggling. 
He  beckoned  the  ferryman  forward,  and  Eve,  swimming 
and  fighting,  was  towed  across.  To  Morning  it  was  like 
one  of  his  adventures  back  in  the  days  of  the  race-horse 
shipping. 

Eve  struck  the  opposite  bank — half-strangled  from 
her  struggle  and  the  blind.  The  day  had  come.  The 
nameless  little  town  on  this  side  of  the  Hun  was  out  to 
meet  him.  Had  he  brought  a  Korean  tiger  by  a  string, 
however,  he  could  not  have  enjoyed  more  space — as  the 
mare  climbed  from  the  stream.  He  talked  to  her  and 
unbound  her  eyes.  Red  and  deeply  baleful  they  were. 
She  shook  her  head  and  parted  her  jaws.  The  circle  of 
natives  widened.  Morning  straightened  the  saddle  and 
patted  Eve's  neck  softly,  talking  modestly  of  her  exploit. 
.  .  .  Natives  were  now  hailing  from  mid-stream,  so 
he  leaped  into  the  sticky  saddle  and  guided  the  mare 
out  to  the  main  road  leading  to  Tawan  on  the  Liao. 
.  .  .  Queerly  enough,  just  at  this  instant,  he  remem 
bered  the  hands  and  the  lips  of  the  ferryman — a  leper. 
Ten  miles  on  the  map — he  could  count  thirteen  by 
the  road — and  then  the  Liao  crossing.  .  .  .  The 
mare  pounded  on  until  they  came  to  a  wild  hollow,  rock- 
strewn,  among  deserted  hills.  Morning  drew  up,  cooled 
his  mount  and  fed  the  soaked  grain  strapped  to  the  sad 
dle  since  the  night  before.  Eve  was  not  too  cross  to 
eat — nor  too  tired.  She  lifted  her  head  often  and  drew 
in  the  air  with  the  sound  of  a  bubble-pipe.  .  .  . 
Just  now  Morning  noted  a  wrinkle  in  his  saddle  blanket. 
Hot  with  dread,  he  loosed  the  girth. 

He  looked  around  in  terror  lest  anyone  see  his  own 
shame  and  fear.  He  had  put  the  saddle  on  in  the  dark, 
but  passed  his  hand  between  her  back  and  the  cloth. 
Long  ago  a  trainer  had  whipped  him  for  a  bad  bit  of 


AFIELD  65 

saddling ;  even  at  the  time  he  had  felt  the  whipping  de 
served.  He  lifted  the  saddle.  A  pink  scalded  mouth 
the  size  of  a  twenty-five-cent  piece  was  there.  .  .  . 
God,  if  he  could  only  be  whipped  now.  She  was  sensi 
tive  as  satin ;  it  was  only  a  little  wrinkle  of  the  rain- 
soaked  blanket.  .  .  .  His  voice  whimpered  as  he- 
spoke  to  her. 

Only  a  horseman  could  have  suffered  so.  He  washed 
the  rub,  packed  soft  lint  from  a  Russian  first-aid  ban 
dage  about  to  ease  the  pressure ;  and  then,  since  the  rain 
had  stopped  again,  he  rubbed  her  dry  and  walked  at  her 
head  for  hours,  despairing  at  last  of  the  town  named 
Tawan.  The  Liao  was  visible  before  the  village  itself. 
Morning  shook  with  fatigue.  He  had  to  gain  the  saddle 
for  the  possible  need  of  swift  action,  but  the  wound 
beneath  never  left  his  mind.  It  uncentered  his  self- 
confidence — a  force  badly  needed  now. 

And  this  was  the  Liao — the  last  big  river,  roughly 
half-way.  The  end  of  the  war-zone,  it  was,  too,  but  the 
bright  point  of  peril  from  Hun  huises.  .  ,  .  Morn 
ing  saw  the  thin  masts  of  the  river  junks  over  the  bowl 
of  the  hill,  their  tribute  flags  flying.  .  .  .  To  pass 
was  the  day's  work,  to  make  the  ferry  with  Eve.  There 
was  too  much  misery  and  contrition  in  his  heart  for  him 
to  handle  her  roughly.  The  blind  could  not  be  used 
again.  She  would  connect  that  with  the  back-fall  into 
the  Hun.  The  town  was  full  of  voices. 


15 

CHINESE  were  gathering.  Morning  went  about  his 
business  as  if  all  were  well,  but  nothing  was  good 
to  him  about  the  increase  of  these  hard,  quick-handed 
men.  They  were  almost  like  Japanese.  With  the  tail 
of  his  eye,  he  saw  shirt  signals  across  the  river.  The 
main  junk  fleet  was  opposite.  Trouble — he  knew  it. 
The  hard,  bright  light  was  in  his  brain. 


66  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

In  the  gathering  of  the  natives,  Eve  was  roused 
afresh.  His  only  way  was  to  try  her  without  the  blind. 
If  she  showed  fight,  he  meant  to  mount  quickly  and  ride 
back  through  the  crowd  for  one  of  the  lower-town 
crossings. 

Without  looking  back,  he  led  the  way  to  the  landing, 
holding  just  the  weight  of  the  bridle-rein.  His  arm 
gave  with  her  every  hesitation.  To  his  amazement  she 
consented  to  try.  The  tow-craft  was  larger  here — 
enough  for  a  bullock-pair  and  cart — and  better  fitted  to 
the  landing.  Step  by  step  she  went  with  him  to  her 
place. 

Now  Morning  saw  that  in  using  the  blind  the  first 
time  he  had  done  her  another  injury.  She  would  not 
have  gone  back  into  the  Hun  but  for  that.  She  awed 
him.  Something  Fallows  had  said  recurred — about  her 
being  unconquerable,  different  every  day.  Also  Fallows 
had  said,  "She  will  kill  you  at  the  last.  .  .  ." 

He  drove  back  the  Chinese,  all  but  two  pole-men,  that 
would  have  gathered  on  the  tow.  This  was  quietly  done, 
but  his  inflexibility  was  felt.  Many  signals  were  sent 
across,  as  the  tow  receded  from  the  shore,  and  numbers 
increased  on  the  opposite  bank. 

Eve,  breathing  audibly,  swung  forward  and  back  with 
the  craft,  as  it  gave  to  the  river.  The  towing  junk,  as 
in  the  Hun,  held  the  other  against  the  current;  the  rest 
was  poling  and  paddling.  .  .  .  The  junk  itself 
slipped  out  of  the  way  as  the  tow  was  warped  toward 
the  landing.  Other  junks  were  stealing  in.  ... 
Morning  already  had  paid.  He  felt  the  girth  of  the 
saddle,  fingered  the  bridle,  tightened  his  belt.  A  warm, 
gray  day,  but  he  was  spent  and  gaunt  and  cold.  Eve 
was  hushed — mulling  her  bit  softly,  trembling  with 
hatred  for  the  Chinese. 

The  road  ascended  from  the  river,  through  a  narrow 
gorge  with  rocky  walls.  The  river-men  were  woven 
across  the  way.  While  the  tow  was  yet  fifteen  feet  from 


AFIELD  67 

the  landing,  Morning  gained  the  saddle.  The  ferry-man 
gestured  frantically  that  this  had  never  been  done  be 
fore  ;  that  a  man's  beast  properly  should  be  led  across. 
Morning  laughed,  tightened  his  knees,  and  at  an  early 
instant  loosened  the  bridle-rein,  for  the  mare  to  jump. 
The  heavy  tow  shot  back  as  she  cleared  the  fissure  of 
stream. 

Morning  was  now  caught  in  the  blur  of  events.  The 
Chinese  did  not  give  way  for  the  mare,  as  she  trotted 
across  the  boards  to  the  rocky  shore.  Up  she  went  strik 
ing.  Again  he  had  not  known  Eve.  The  back-dive  into 
the  Hun  had  not  cured  her.  She  would  walk  like  a  man 
and  pitch  back  into  Hell — and  do  it  again.  .  .  . 
Someone  knifed  her  from  the  side  and  she  toppled. 

The  fall  was  swift  and  terrible,  for  the  trail  sloped 
behind.  Morning's  instinct  was  truer  than  his  brain, 
but  there  was  no  choice  of  way  to  jump.  He  could  not 
push  the  mare  from  him  completely  to  avoid  the  cliff. 
He  was  half-stunned  against  the  wall,  and  not  clear 
from  the  struggle  of  her  fall.  The  brain  is  never  able 
to  report  this  instant  afterward,  even  though  conscious 
ness  is  not  lost.  He  was  struck,  trampled ;  he  felt  the 
cold  of  the  rock  against  his  breast,  and  the  burn  of  a 
knife. 

The  Chinese  struck  at  him  as  he  rose.  The  mare 
was  up,  facing  him,  but  dragging  him  upward,  as  a  dog 
with  a  bone.  His  left  hand  found  the  pistol.  He  cleared 
the  Chinese  from  him,  emptying  the  chambers.  .  . 
Eve  let  him  come  to  her.  He  must  have  gained  the 
saddle  as  she  swung  around  in  the  narrow  gorge  to  be 
gin  her  run.  The  wind  rushed  coldly  across  his 
breast  and  abdomen.  His  shirt  had  been  cut  and  pulled 
free.  It  was  covered  with  blood.  He  tried  to  hold  the 
mare,  but  either  his  strength  was  gone  or  she  was  past 
feeling  the  bit.  It  was  her  hour.  All  Morning  could 
do  was  to  keep  the  road. 

He  was  all  but  knocked  out.     He  had  mounted  as  a 


68  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

fighter  gets  up  under  the  count — and  fights  on  without 
exactly  knowing.  The  mare  was  running  head  down. 
He  tried  his  strength  again.  The  reins  were  rigid;  she 
had  the  bit  and  meant  to  end  the  game.  .  .  .  He 
loved  her  wild  heart ;  mourned  for  her ;  called  her  name  ; 
told  her  of  wrongs  he  had  done.  Again  and  again,  the 
light  went  from  him ;  sometimes  he  drooped  forward  to 
her  thin,  short  mane,  and  clung  there,  but  the  heat  of 
her  made  him  ill.  They  came  into  hills,  passed  tiny  vil 
lages.  It  was  all  strange  and  terrible — a  hurtling  from 
high  heaven.  .  .  .  Eve  was  like  a  furnace.  .  .  . 

And  now  she  was  weaving  on  the  road — running 
drunkenly,  unless  his  eyes  betrayed.  .  .  .  The  rush 
ing  wind  was  cold  upon  his  breast.  His  coat  was  gone ; 
his  shirt  had  been  cut.  He  tried  to  pull  the  blood- 
soaked  ends  together.  At  this  moment  the  blow 
fell. 

These  Chinese  had  been  quick-handed,  and  they  knew 
where  to  search  for  a  man's  goods.  He  was  coldly  sane 
in  an  instant,  for  the  rending  of  his  whole  nature ;  then 
came  the  quick  zeal  for  death — the  intolerableness  of 
living  an  instant.  The  wallet — the  big  story — some  hun 
dreds  of  tales  in  paper !  It  was  the  passing  of  these 
from  next  his  body  that  had  left  him  cold.  .  .  .  Fury 
must  have  come  to  his  arms.  The  mare  lifted  her  head 
under  his  sudden  attack. 

Yes,  he  could  manage  her  now.  The  bloody  mouth 
and  the  blind-mad  head  came  up  to  him — her  front  legs 
giving  like  a  colt's.  Down  they  went  together.  Morn 
ing  took  his  fall  limply,  with  something  of  supremely 
organized  indifference,  and  turned  in  the  mud  to  the 
mare. 

She  was  dead.  The  gray  of  pearl  was  in  her  eyes 
where  red  life  had  been.  .  .  .  No,  she  raised  herself 
forward,  seemed  to  be  searching  for  him,  her  muzzle 
sickly  relaxed.  She  could  not  stir  behind.  Holding 
there  for  a  second — John  Morning  forgot  the  big  story. 


AFIELD  69 

Eve  fell  again.  He  crawled  to  her — tried  to  lift  her 
head.  It  was  heavy  as  a  sheet-anchor  to  his  arms. 
.  .  .  Her  heart  had  broken.  She  had  died  on  her 
feet — the  last  rising  was  but  a  galvanism.  .  .  .  He 
looked  up  into  the  gray  sky  where  the  clouds  stirred 
sleepily.  He  wanted  to  ask  something  from  something 
there.  .  .  .  He  could  not  think  of  what  he  wanted. 
.  .  .  Oh,  yes,  his  book  of  Liaoyang. 

And  now  his  eye  roved  over  the  mare.  .  .  .  Her 
hind  legs  were  sheeted  with  fresh  blood  and  clotted  with 
dry.  .  .  .  Desperately  he  craned  about  to  see  fur 
ther.  Entrails  were  protruding  from  a  knife  wound. 
The  inner  tissues  were  not  cut,  but  the  opened  gash  had 
let  them  sag  horribly.  She  had  run  from  Tawan  with 
that  wound.  .  .  .  He  had  worn  her  to  the  quick  in 
night ;  blinded  her  for  the  Hun  crossing,  when  she  would 
have  done  nobly  with  eyes  uncovered.  .  .  .  He  had 
not  been  able  to  keep  her  from  killing  herself.  .  . 
John  Morning,  the  horseman.  .  .  .  He  had  left  a 
gaping  wound  in  the  spirit  of  Duke  Fallows.  .  . 
All  that  he  had  done  was  failure  and  loss ;  all  that  he 
had  planned  so  passionately,  so  brutally,  indeed,  that 
the  needs  and  the  offerings  of  others  had  not  reached  his 
heart,  because  of  the  iron  self-purpose  weighed  there. 

Luban,  Lowenkampf,  Mergenthaler,  even  the  Com 
mander-in-chief,  looked  strangely  in  through  the  dark 
ened  windows  of  his  mind.  The  moral  suffocation  of 
the  grain-fields  surged  over  him  again.  .  .  .  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  that  last  moment  in  the  ravine,  but 
not  the  taking  of  the  wallet.  .  .  .  Was  it  just  a 
dream  that  a  native  leaped  forward  to  grasp  his  stirrup, 
and  that  he  leaned  down  to  fire?  He  seemed  to  recall 
the  altered  brow. 

The  pictures  came  too  fast.  The  sky  did  not  change. 
The  something  did  not  answer.  .  .  .  Eve  was  lying 
in  the  mud.  She  looked  darker  and  huddled.  He  kissed 
her  face,  and  as  he  gained  his  feet,  the  thought  came 


70  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

queerly  that  he  might  be  dead,  as  she  was.     He  held  the 
thought  of  action  to  his  limbs  and  made  them  move. 

When  he  could  think  more  clearly,  he  scorned  the 
pain  and  protest  of  his  limbs.  He  would  not  be  less 
than  Eve.  If  he  were  not  dead,  he  would  die  straight 
up,  and  on  the  road  to  Koupangtse. 

16 

THIRTY-SIX   hours   after   Morning   left   Eve,   an 
English  correspondent  at  Shanhaikwan  added  the 
following  to  a  long  descriptive  letter  made  up  of  refugee 
tales,  and  the  edges  and  hearsay  of  the  war-zone: 

Night  of  Sept.  5.  ...  An  American  whose 
name  by  passport  is  John  Morning  reached  here  to 
night  on  the  Chinese  Eastern,  having  left  Koupangtse 
this  morning.  According  to  his  story,  he  was  with 
the  Russians,  now  in  retreat  from  Liaoyang,  on  the 
night  of  Sept.  3,  only  forty-eight  hours  from  this 
writing. 

Morning  was  in  an  unconscious  condition  upon 
arrival.  His  passage  had  been  fourth-class  for  the 
journey,  and  he  was  packed  among  the  coolies  and 
refugees  on  an  open  flat-car  so  crowded  that  all  but 
the  desperately  fatigued  had  room  only  to  stand. 
This  white  man  had  fallen  to  the  floor  of  the  car, 
among  the  bare  feet  of  the  surging  Oriental  crowd, 
beneath  their  foul  garments. 

.  .  .  He  was  lifted  forth  from  the  car  by  the 
Chinese — a  spectacle  abjectly  human,  covered  with 
filth ;  moreover,  his  body  was  incredibly  bruised,  his 
left  puttee  legging  torn  by  a  deep  knife-wound  that 
began  at  the  knee,  and  traversed  a  distance  of  eight 
inches  downward — the  whole  was  gummed  and  black 
with  blood ;  another  knife-wound  in  his  side  was  in 
an  angry  condition,  and  his  clothing  was  stiffened 
from  flow  of  it. 


AFIELD  71 

A  few  taels  in  paper  and  silver  were  found  upon 
him ;  the  passport,  an  unopened  letter  addressed  to 
himself ;  also  a  manuscript  addressed  to  a  San  Fran 
cisco  paper,  and  to  be  delivered  by  John  Morning. 
The  natives  reported  that  he  had  reached  Koupangtse 
an  hour  before  the  arrival  of  the  Chinese  Eastern; 
had  employed  a  native  to  buy  him  fourth-class  pas 
sage,  paying  the  native  also  to  help  him  aboard.  He 
had  collapsed,  however,  until  actually  among  the  Chi 
nese  on  the  flat-car.  He  had  tasted  neither  food  nor 
drink  during  the  long  day's  journey,  nor  in  Kou 
pangtse  during  the  wait.  The  natives  affirm  that  he 
crawled  part  of  the  distance  up  to  the  railway  sta 
tion  ;  and  that  there  were  no  English  or  Americans 
there. 

Upon  reaching  here,  Morning  was  revived  with 
stimulants,  his  wounds  bathed  and  dressed,  fresh 
clothing  provided.  His  extraordinary  vitality  and 
courage  indicate  that  he  will  overcome  the  shocks 
and  exhaustion  of  a  journey  hardly  paralleled  any 
where,  if  his  story  be  true.  He  asserts  that  he  must 
be  on  his  way  to  Tientsin  to-morrow  morning — but 
that,  of  course,  is  impossible.  .  .  .  He  is  not  in 
condition  to  answer  questions,  although  undoubt 
edly  much  is  in  his  dazed  and  stricken  brain  for  which 
the  world  is  at  this  moment  waiting. 

In  his  half-delirium,  Morning  seems  occupied  with 
the  loss  of  a  certain  sorrel  mare.  He  also  reports 
the  loss  of  his  complete  story  of  the  battle,  the  pre 
liminary  fighting,  the  generals  in  character  sketch, 
the  terrain  and  all,  covering  a  period  of  four  months 
up  to  the  moment  of  General  Zarubaieff's  withdrawal 
from  the  city  proper.  This  manuscript,  said  to  con 
tain  over  a  hundred  thousand  words  done  on  Chinese 
parchment,  was  in  a  wallet  with  the  writer's  money, 
and  was  cut  from  him  in  the  struggle  on  the  bank  of 


72  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

the  Liao,  when  the  wounds  were  received.     His  as 
sailants  were  doubtless  Hun  huises. 

Whatever  can  be  said  about  the  irrational  parts 
of  his  story,  the  young  man  appears  to  know  the 
story  of  the  battle  from  the  Russian  standpoint.  He 
brings  the  peculiar  point  of  view  that  it  was  the 
millet  that  defeated  the  Russians,  although  the  supe 
riority  of  the  Japanese  in  morale,  markmanship, 
fluidity,  is  well  known,  etc. 

.  .  .  Morning  lay  in  a  decent  room  at  the  Rest 
House  in  Shanhaikwan.  There  seemed  an  ivory  finger 
in  his  brain  pointing  to  the  sea — to  Japan,  to  the  States. 
So  long  as  he  was  walking,  riding,  entrained,  all  was 
well  enough,  and  the  rest  was  mere  body  that  had  to 
obey — but  when  he  stopped,  the  ivory  finger  grew  hot 
or  icy  by  turns ;  and  as  now,  he  watched  in  agony  for 
the  day  and  the  departure  of  the  train  for  Tientsin. 

He  would  require  help.  Below  the  waist  he  was  ex 
cruciating  wreckage  that  for  the  present  would  not  an 
swer  his  will.  .  .  .  They  were  good  to  him  here. 
The  Chinese  coolies  had  been  good  to  him  on  the  open 
car.  .  .  .  Lowenkampf,  Fallows,  good  to  him — so 
his  thoughts  ran — the  sorrel  Eve  was  his  own  heart's 
mate.  He  loved  her  running,  dying,  striking.  She  had 
run  until  her  heart  broke.  He  could  not  do  less.  She 
had  run  until  she  was  past  pain — he  must  do  that — and 
go  on  after  that.  .  .  .  Was  it  still  in  his  brain — the 
great  story?  Would  it  clear  and  write  itself — the  great 
story  ? 

That  was  the  question.  All  was  well  if  he  could  get 
Liaoyang  out  in  words.  He  would  do  it  all  over  again 
on  the  ship.  Every  day  the  ship  would  be  carrying  him 
closer  to  the  States.  He  was  still  on  schedule.  He 
would  reach  America  on  the  first  possible  ship  after  the 
battle  of  Liaoyang — possibly,  ahead  of  mails.  On  the 
voyage  he  would  re-do  the  book — twenty  days — five 
thousand  words  a  day.  He  might  do  it  better.  It  might 


AFIELD  73 

come  up  clean  out  of  the  journey,  the  battle  itself  and 
the  pictures  strengthened,  brightened,  impregnated  with 
fresh  power.  .  .  .  Three  weeks — every  moment  sail 
ing  to  the  States — the  first  and  fastest  ship !  .  .  . 
The  driving  devil  in  his  brain  would  be  at  rest.  The  big" 
story  would  clear,  as  he  began  to  write.  The  days  of 
labor  at  first  would  change  to  days  of  pure  instrumenta 
tion.  He  would  drive  at  first — then  the  task  would  drive 
him.  .  .  .  But  he  must  not  miss  a  possible  day  to  Japan 
• — to  Nagasaki.  .  .  .  He  had  not  money  for  the 
passage  to  America.  At  this  very  moment  he  could  not 
get  out  of  bed — but  these  two  were  mere  pups  compared 
to  the  wolves  he  had  met.  .  .  . 

They  found  him  on  the  floor  drawing  on  his  clothes 
in  the  morning — an  hour  before  the  train.  His  wounds 
were  bleeding,  but  he  laughed  at  that. 

"You  see,  I've  got  to  make  it.  You've  been  very 
kind.  I'll  heal  on  the  way — not  here.  I've  got  the  big 
story.  I've  got  to  keep  moving  to  think  it  out.  I  can't 
think  here.  I'll  get  on — thank  you." 

And  he  was  on.  That  night  his  train  stopped  for 
ten  minutes  at  Tongu,  the  town  near  the  Taku  Forts,  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Pei-ho.  .  .  .  All  day  he  had  con 
sidered  the  chance  of  getting  ship  here,  without  going 
on  to  Tientsin,  seventy  miles  up-river.  The  larger  ships 
lightered  their  traffic  from  Tongu ;  he  might  catch  a 
steamer  sailing  to-night  for  Japan,  or  at  least  for  Chifu. 
.  .  .  It  was  getting  dark. 

The  face  that  looked  through  the  barred  window  at 
the  Englishman  in  charge  of  the  station  at  Tongu  un 
settled  the  latter's  evening  and  many  evenings  after 
ward. 

"Is  there  a  ship  from  the  river-mouth  to-night?" 

Morning  repeated  his  question,  and  perceived  that 
the  agent  had  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  two  hands  holding 
the  ticket-shelf.  Morning's  nails  were  tight  in  the  wood; 
he  would  wobble  if  he  let  go. 


74  DOWN  AMONG   MEN 

"Yes,  there's  the  little  Tungsheng.  She  goes  off  to 
night " 

"For  Japan?" 

"Yes,  but  she  doesn't  carry  passengers — that  is — 
unless  the  Captain  gives  up  his  quarters,  and  he  has 
already  done  that  this  trip." 

"Deck  passengers " 

"Sure,  all  carry  coolies  out  of  here — best  freight  we 
have." 

"Do  you  sell  the  tickets  ?" 

"Who's  going?" 

"My  servant.  ...  I  won't  go  on  to  Tientsin  if 
I  can  get — get  him  on  to-night " 

"The  launch  and  lighter  are  supposed  to  be  down 
shortly  from  Tientsin — that's  all  I  can  say.  It's  blow 
ing  a  bit.  She  may  not  clear." 

"She'll  clear  if  any  does?" 

"Yes,  Himmelhock  has  taken  her  out  of  here  worse 
than  this.  You'd  better  decide — I've  got  to  go  out  now. 
The  train's  leaving." 

Seventy  miles  up  the  river,  he  thought, — the  wrong 
way  if  he  stuck  to  the  train.  Every  mile  that  ivory  fin 
ger  would  torture  him.  His  brain  now  seemed  holding 
back  an  avalanche.  If  he  chose  falsely,  he  would  tumble 
down  the  blackness  with  the  rocks  and  glaciers.  .  .  . 
This  Englishman  looked  a  gamester — he  might  help. 
Perhaps  he  wasn't  a  corpse. 

"I'll  stay,"  he  said,  and  the  story  and  all  his  purpose 
wobbled  and  grew  black.  .  .  .  He  mustn't  forget. 
He  mustn't  fall.  .  .  .  So  he  stood  there  holding  fast 
to  the  ticket-shelf,  which  he  could  not  feel — held  and 
held,  and  the  train  clattered,  grew  silent,  and  it  was 
dark. 

"Where's  your  servant?" 

Morning's  lips  moved. 

"Where  is  your  servant?" 

"I  am  my  servant." 


AFIELD  75 

"I  can't  give  a  white  man  deck  passage.  It's  not 
only  against  the  rules — but  against  reason." 

Morning  groped  for  his  arm.  "Take  me  into  the 
light,"  he  said. 

The  man  obeyed. 

"What  clay  is  this?" 

"Night  of  September  six." 

"I  left  Liaoyang  the  night  of  the  third.  I  rode  a  good 
horse  to  death — along  the  Taitse,  over  the  Hun  and  the 
Liao.  I  rode  through  the  Him  huises  twice.  I  was  all 
cut  up  and  beaten — the  horse  went  over  backward  in  the 
Hun,  and  in  the  gut  on  the  bank  of  the  Liao.  ...  I 
was  in  Liaoyang  for  the  battle.  I  was  there  four  months 
waiting  for  the  battle.  They  took  my  story — hundred 
thousand  words — the  Hun  huises  did,  in  the  fight  on  the 
Liao  bank.  The  horse  killed  herself  running  with  me 
.  .  .  but  I've  got  it  all  in  my  head — the  story.  I'll 
get  to  the  States  with  it  before  any  mail — before  any 
other  man.  It's  all  in  my  head — the  whole  Russian-end. 
I  can  write  it  again  on  the  ship  to  the  States  in  three 
weeks.  .  .  .  I've  got  to  get  off  to-night.  You're  the 
one  to  help  me.  .  .  .  See  these — 

Morning  opened  his  shirt  and  then  started  to  undo 
liis  legging. 

"For  God's  sake — don't.  .  ..  -  But  you'll  die  on 
the  deck— 

"No,  the  only  way  to  kill  me  would  be  to  wall  me 
up — so  I  couldn't  keep  moving." 

"I'll  go  down  to  the  river  with  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

And  then  he  had  John  Morning  sobbing  on  his 
shoulder. 

17 

THE  Englishman  at  Tongu  was  a  small,  sallow  man, 
with  the  face  of  one  who  is  used  to  getting  the 
"worst  of  it.     Tongu,  as  a  post,  was  no  exception  from 
an  outsider's  point  of  view.     Morning  saw  this  face  in 


76  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

odd  lights  during  the  days  that  followed.  It  came  to  the 
chamber  of  images — and  always  he  wanted  to  break 
down,  and  his  hands  went  out  for  the  shoulder.  .  .  . 
He  remembered  a  pitching  junk  in  the  windy  blackness 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Pei-ho.  (He  had  seen  the  low  mud 
flats  of  the  Taku  forts  from  here  in  another  service.) 
.  .  .  The  Tungsheng  looked  little — not  much  bigger 
than  the  junk,  and  she  was  wooden.  There  was  chill 
and  a  slap  of  rain  in  the  blackness. 

"Hul-lo,  who  is  dere?"  The  slow,  juicy  voice  came 
from  the  door  of  the  pilot-house. 

"Endicott.     I've  got  a  deck  passenger " 

"Huh — dere  dick  as  meggots  alretty " 

"This  is  a  kitchen  coolie  of  mine — he  must  go.  Send 
someone  down  to  make  a  place  and  take  his  transporta- 
tion- 

The  grumbling  that  followed  was  a  matter  of  habit 
rather  than  of  effectiveness.  Morning  seemed  to  see  the 
lower  lip  from  which  the  voice  came,  a  thick  and  loppy 
member.  .  .  .  The  mate  came  down,  stepping  from 
shoulder  to  back,  across  the  complaining  natives.  They 
were  three  deep  on  the  deck.  He  kicked  clear  a  hole 
in  the  lee  of  the  cabin.  .  .  .  Morning  sank  in,  and 
Endicott  bent  to  whisper : 

"Put  the  grub-basket  between  your  knees  and  don't 
take  your  hands  off  it.  ...  Put  the  blanket  over  it. 
It's  a  thick,  good  blanket.  I  could  give  you  a  better 
passage,  but  they  wouldn't  take  you — honest,  they 
wouldn't.  If  they  see  you're  white,  tell  old  Himmelhock 
you're  Endicott's  house-coolie.  He  can't  do  anything 
now.  ...  If  you  live,  write  and  send  the  big  story 
to  Endicott  at  Tongu." 

Morning  was  sinking  to  sleep.  He  felt  the  warmth 
of  the  blanket,  a  thick,  rough  blanket  Endicott  had  do 
nated.  Its  warmth  was  like  the  man's  heart.  .  .  . 
Morning's  hands  went  out.  A  coolie  growled  at  him. 
.  .  .  There  was  no  worry  now.  It  was  the  night  of 


AFIELD  77 

the  sixth,  and  he  was  sailing.  He  could  do  no  more ; 
the  ivory  finger  in  his  brain  neither  froze  nor  burned. 
.  .  .  The  pitching  did  not  rouse  him — nor  the  men  of 
sewers  and  fields — sick  where  they  sat — woven,  matted 
together,  trusting  to  the  animal  heat  of  the  mass  to  keep 
from  dying  of  exposure.  John  Morning  lay  in  the  midst 
of  them — John  Morning  whose  body  would  not  die. 

The     days     and     nights     rushed     together.     .     .     . 

Sometimes  he  wondered  if  he  were  not  back  at  the 
shipping — in  some  stock-car  with  the  horses — but  horses 
were  so  clean  compared  to  this.  .  .  .  When  he  could 
think,  he  put  clean  lint  to  his  wounds.  He  scorned  pain, 
for  he  was  on  his  way ;  and  much  was  merciful  coma. 

There  was  rain,  deluges ;  and  though  the  air  rose 
heavy  as  amber  afterward,  the  freshness  at  the  time  was 
salvation.  He  learned  as  it  is  probable  no  other  Amer 
ican  ever  learned,  what  it  means  to  live  in  the  muck  of 
men.  All  one  at  the  beginning  and  at  the  ending,  it  is 
marvelous  how  men  separate  their  lives  in  the  interval — 
how  little  they  know  of  one  another,  and  how  easily 
foolish  noses  turn  up.  Here  was  a  man  alive — dream 
ing  of  the  baths  he  had  missed,  of  Japanese  Inn  baths 
most  of  all. 

"Who  am  I?"  he  asked.  .  .  .  "John  Morning," 
would  whip  back  to  him  from  somewhere.  "And  who 
in  hell  is  John  Morning  to  revolt  at  the  sufferings  of 
other  men?" 

He  had  seen  the  coolies  in  the  steerage  of  many  ships 
— even  these  massed  deck  passages  of  the  Yellow  and 
China  Seas  and  the  Coasting  trade.  He  had  looked  at 
them  before  as  one  looks  into  a  cage  of  animals.  Now 
he  was  one  of  those  who  looked  out,  one  of  the  slumees. 
Once  he  asked,  "Is  this  the  bottom  of  the  human  drain, 
and  if  not — must  I  sink  to  it?" 

The  Chinese  did  steal  his  food  that  first  night,  but 
fed  him  occasionally  from  their  own  stock.  Finding  him 
white,  they  fouled  him,  but  kept  him  warm.  .  .  . 


78  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

The  Tungsheng  ran  into  Chifu  harbor  to  avoid  a  storm, 
and  a  full  day  was  lost.  John  Morning  had  no  phi 
losophy  then — a  hell-minded  male  full  of  sickness — not 
good  to  view,  even  through  the  bars  of  a  cage.  But  at 
best  to  sit  five  hours,  where  he  sat  more  than  five  days 
and  nights,  would  condemn  the  mind  of  any  white  man 
or  woman  to  chaos,  or  else  restore  it  to  the  fine  sanity  of 
Brotherhood. 

And  then  the  day  when  the  breeze  turned  warm  and 
the  Islands  were  green !  .  .  .  Coolies  were  men  that 
hour,  men  with  eyes  that  melted  to  ineffable  softness. 
It  was  like  Jesus  coming  toward  them  on  the  sea — the 
green  hills  of  Japan.  Their  hearts  broke  with  emotion ; 
they  wept  and  loved  one  another — this  mass  all  molten 
and  integrated  into  one.  It  was  like  the  Savior  coming 
to  meet  them  through  the  warm  bright  air.  He  would 
make  them  clean ;  their  eyes  would  follow  Him 
always.  .  .  . 

Morning  was  not  the  only  one  who  had  to  be  carried 
ashore  at  Shimoneseki,  after  the  quarantine  officer  had 
finished  with  the  herd.  His  passport  saved  him.  "I 
had  to  come.  It  was  the  first  ship  out  of  Tongu.  Deck 
passage  was  the  only  way  they  would  take  me,"  was  the 
simple  story.  He  was  fevered,  but  strangely  subdued 
that  day.  Himmelhock  was  at  the  door  of  the  pilot 
house,  when  Morning  looked  up  from  the  shore  a  last 
time,  and  his  native  sailors,  bare  to  the  thigh,  were 
sluicing  the  decks. 

The  bath  was  heaven.  He  was  able  to  walk  after 
ward.  The  officials  burned  his  clothing,  but  made  it 
possible  for  him  to  buy  a  few  light  things.  The  wound 
in  his  leg  was  healing;  the  bruises  fading  away.  The 
wound  in  his  side  did  not  heal;  it  was  angry  as  a  feline 
mouth. 

He  had  bandages,  but  no  stockings;  clean  canvas 
clothing,  but  no  underwear.  ...  He  found  that  he 
had  to  wait  before  answering  when  anyone  spoke;  and 


AFIELD  79 

then  he  was  not  quite  sure  if  he  had  answered,  and 
would  try  again — until  they  stopped  him.  Somewhere 
long  ago  there  was  a  parrot  whose  eyes  were  rimmed 
— with  red-brown,  and  of  stony  opaqueness.  He  couldn't 
recall  where  the  parrot  was,  but  it  had  something  to  do 
with  him  when  he  was  little,  almost  beyond  memory. 
His  eyes  now  felt  just  as  the  parrot's  had  looked. 

It  was  a  night  run  back  to  Nagasaki  by  rail — his 
thought  was  of  ships,  ships,  ships.  He  could  stand  off 
from  the  world  and  see  the  ships — all  the  lines  of  tossing, 
steaming  ships.  Then  he  would  go  down  to  the  deck  of 
one — and  below  and  aft  where  Asiatics  were  crowded 
together.  To  the  darkest  and  thickest  place  among 
them  he  would  go,  and  there  lie  and  rest  until  the  ringer 
in  his  brain  roused  him.  Then  he  would  find  that 
the  train  had  stopped.  It  was  the  halt  that  awakened 
him. 

There  were  two  ships,  all  but  ready  to  clear  for  the 
States,  lying  in  the  harbor  of  Nagasaki  that  morning. 
The  first  was  the  liner  Coptic,  but  she  had  to  go  north 
first,  a  day  at  Kobe,  and  two  days  at  Yokohama,  before 
taking  the  long  southeastern  slide  to  Honolulu.  She  was 
faster  than  the  American  transport,  Sickles  (with  a  light 
load  of  sick  and  insane  from  the  Islands),  but  the  latter 
was  clearing  for  Honolulu  at  sundown  and  would  reach 
San  Francisco  at  least  one  day  earlier  than  the  liner. 
Moreover,  the  Coptic  would  have  recent  mails ;  the 
Sickles  would  beat  the  mails. 

Money  was  waiting  for  him  at  Tokyo,  less  than  an 
hour's  journey  from  Yokohama;  he  would  have  good 
care  and  a  comfortable  passage  home  on  the  old  liner, 
but  his  brain  burned  at  the  thought.  Four  days  north — 
not  homeward.  .  .  .  The  Sickles  was  clipper-built 
— she  was  white  and  clean-lined,  lying  out  in  the  harbor, 
in  the  midst  of  black  collier  babies.  She  was  off  for 
Home  to-night.  He  had  traveled  home  once  before  on  a 
transport.  He  was  American  and  she — the  flag  was 


80  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

there,  run  together  a  bit  in  the  vivid  light,  but  the  flag 
was  there !  And  to-night  he  would  be  at  sea — pulling 
himself  together  for  the  big  story,  alone  with  the  big 
story — the  ship  never  stopping — unless  they  stopped  in 
ocean  to  drop  the  dead.  .  .  . 

The  actual  cost  of  the  transport  passage  is  very  little, 
merely  a  computation  for  food  and  berth ;  the  difficulty 
is  to  obtain  the  permit.  As  it  was,  he  had  not  enough 
money,  barely  enough  to  get  up  to  Yokohama,  second 
class  on  the  Coptic ;  and  yet,  this  hardly  entered.  It  was 
like  a  home  city,  this  American  ship,  to  one  who  had 
been  in  the  alien  heart  of  the  Chinese  country  so  long. 
He  would  know  someone,  and  a  telegram  from  'Frisco 
would  bring  money  to  him.  He  had  a  mighty  reliance 
from  the  big  story. 

The  U.  S.  quartermaster  at  Nagasaki  was  a  tired  old 
man.  He  advised  Morning  to  cable  to  Manila  for  per 
mission.  Morning  did  not  say  that  he  lacked  money 
for  this,  but  repeated  his  wish  to  go.  The  old  man 
thought  a  minute  and  then  referred  him  to  Ferry,  the 
Sickles  quartermaster.  He  had  been  doing  this  for  thirty 
years,  referring  others  to  others  so  that  all  matters 
merely  struck  and  glanced  from  him.  Thus  he  kept  an 
open  mind.  Morning  wanted  something  to  take  from 
this  office  to  Ferry  of  the  Sickles.  The  resistance  he 
encountered  heated  him.  The  smell  of  the  deck-passage 
was  in  his  nostrils ;  it  seemed  in  his  veins,  and  made  him 
afraid  that  others  caught  the  taint.  The  old  quarter 
master  did  not  help  him.  Morning  could  hear  his  own 
voice,  but  could  not  hold  in  mind  what  he  said.  .  .  . 
The  officer  did  not  seem  to  be  interested  in  Liaoyang. 
This  disturbed  him.  It  made  him  ask  if  he  had  not 
gone  mad  after  all — if  he  could  be  wrong  on  this  main 
trend,  that  he  had  something  the  world  wanted. 

He  took  a  sampan  at  the  harbor-front  and  went 
aboard  the  transport.  Ferry,  the  Sickles  quartermaster, 
was  a  tall,  lean  man  with  a  shut  smile  that  drooped. 


AFIELD  8 1 

The  face  was  a  pinched  and  diminished  Mergenthaler, 
and  brought  out  the  clouds  and  the  manias  of  Morning's 
mind. 

Were  all  quartermasters  the  same  ?  What  had  become 
of  men?  Had  the  world  lost  interest  in  monster  hero 
isms?  Ferry  did  not  help  him — on  the  contrary,  stood 
looking  down  with  the  insolence  of  superior  inches. 
Morning  found  himself  telling  about  the  sorrel  mare. 
That  would  not  do.  He  returned  to  the  main  fact  that 
he  had  the  big  story  and  must  get  across  the  Pacific 
with  it. 

"I  can't  take  you " 

Morning  heard  it,  but  couldn't  believe.  He  tried  to 
tell  about  the  Him  huises  and  the  loss  of  the  manuscript, 
the  walk  to  Koupangtse — 

"Really — it's  no  affair  of  mine.  I  can't  take  you  on. 
.  .  .  The  Coptic  is  sailing " 

And  just  now  Mr.  Reever  Kennard  appeared  on  the 
deck.  The  summer  had  added  portliness.  He  was  in 
flannels — a  spectacle  for  children  and  animals.  .  .  . 
The  insignificance  of  all  about  was  quickened  when  Mr. 
Reever  Kennard  appeared.  The  decks  were  less  white, 
sailors,  soldiers  more  enlisted.  John  Morning  became 
an  integer  of  the  Tungsheng's  deck-passage  again,  and 
the  lining  of  his  nostrils  retained  the  reek  of  it. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Kennard?"  he  said.  His  back 
was  different.  He  felt  a  leniency  there,  very  new  or  very 
ancient,  as  he  turned  to  Ferry,  adding:  "This  gentleman 
knows  me.  We  parted  in  Tokyo  this  Spring,  when  I 
went  over  with  the  Russians.  I  met  him  long  ago  in  the 
Philippine  service.  He  will  tell  you " 

Ferry's  face  grew  suddenly  saturnine,  his  eyes  held  in 
the  glance  of  the  famous  correspondent's. 

"You'll  please  count  it  closed — I  can't  take  you." 

Morning  now  turned  to  Kennard,  who  was  sealing 
with  his  tongue  a  little  flap  of  cigar-wrapper  which  may 
have  prevented  the  perfect  draught.  Morning  bowed 


82  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

and  moved  aft,  where  the  dust  of  the  coaling  was  thick, 
and  the  scores  of  natives,  women  and  men,  who  handled 
the  baskets,  were  a  distraction  which  kept  the  reality 
from  stifling  him.  Presently  he  went  ashore  and  it  was 
noon.  .  .  .  He  could  not  understand  Kennard  ;  could 
not  believe  in  an  American  doing  what  Ferry  had  done, 
to  a  man  who  had  the  big  story  of  Liaoyang.  It  was 
some  hideous  mistake ;  he  had  not  been  able  to  make 
himself  understood. 

The  Sickles  launch  was  leaving  the  pier  at  two. 
Morning  was  there  and  took  a  seat.  He  was  holding 
himself — the  avalanche  again — and  rehearsing  in  his 
mind  what  he  should  say  to  Ferry.  His  brain  was  afire ; 
the  wound  in  his  side  had  scalded  him  so  long  that  his 
voice  had  a  whimper  in  it.  He  had  not  eaten — the 
thought  was  repulsive — but  he  had  bought  drink  in  the 
thought  of  clearing  his  brain  and  deadening  his 
hurt.  .  .  . 

His  brain  was  clearer  on  the  launch,  but  the  gin 
fumed  out  of  him  as  he  approached  the  upper  deck, 
where  Ferry's  quarters  were. 

The  Quartermaster  saw  him,  but  was  speaking  to  an 
infantry  captain.  Morning  waited  by  the  rail.  Many 
times  he  thought — if  he  could  only  begin  to  speak  now. 
Yet  he  feared  in  his  heart  when  Ferry  turned  to  him, 
he  would  fail.  It  was  something  little  and  testy  in  the 
man — something  so  different  from  what  he  had  known  in 
the  great  strains  of  Liaoyang — except  for  Luban.  Yes, 
Ferry  was  like  Luban,  when  Luban  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  fancied  inferior.  .  .  .  They  talked  on — Morn 
ing  thought  of  murder  at  last.  A  peculiar  wiry  strength 
gathered  about  the  idea  of  murder  in  its  connection  with 
Ferry's  dark,  mean  face.  He  felt  all  the  old  strength 
in  his  hands,  and  more  from  days  of  pain — days  of  hold 
ing  one's  self — will,  body,  brain. 

"Well "     Ferry  had  turned  to  him  suddenly. 

Morning's  thoughts  winged  away  with  a  swarm  of 


AFIELD  83 

details  of  the  crime.  ...  "I  could  tell  you  some 
thing  of  the  Story — I  could  show  you  how  they  cut  me 
on  the  Liao — the  Hun  huises " 

"If  you  come  to  this  deck  again — I'll  send  you  ashore 
in  irons." 

At  four  that  afternoon  Morning  saw  the  Coptic  draw 
up  her  chains  and  slide  out  of  the  harbor,  with  the  swift 
ease  of  a  river-ferry.  .  .  .  He  could  not  count  him 
self  whipped  on  the  Sickles — and  this  is  the  real  begin 
ning  of  John  Morning.  He  was  Fate-driven.  The  man 
who  did  not  have  the  courage  to  ask  his  rights  in  Tokyo 
— to  inquire  the  reason  of  his  disbarment,  was  not 
through  with  the  American  transport  Sickles.  A  full 
day  ahead  of  the  mails  in  San  Francisco — and  he  was 
waiting  for  the  dusk.  The  fight  had  been  brought  to 
him.  He  was  dull  to  the  idea  of  being  whipped. 

Three  enlisted  men  were  drinking  in  the  little  apoth 
ecary  shop  which  Morning  had  used  for  the  day's  head 
quarters.  They  belonged  to  the  Sickles.  They  had  been 
taking  just  one  more  drink  for  many  minutes.  He  told 
them  he  was  sailing  on  the  transport  and  joined  them 
in  a  sampan  to  the  ship  when  it  was  dark.  The  harbor 
was  still  as  a  dream ;  the  dark  blending  writh  the  water. 
.  .  .  They  touched  the  bellying  white  plates  of  the 
ship.  Morning  seemed  to  come  up  from  infinite  depths. 
.  .  .  The  men  were  very  drunk ;  they  had  ordered 
rapidly  toward  the  end ;  the  effect  caught  up  as  swiftly 
now.  They  helped  each  other  officiously.  Morning  put 
on  the  fallen  hat  of  one  who  had  become  unconscious. 
.  .  .  The  watch  was  of  them,  a  corporal,  who  was  no 
trouble-maker.  He  blustered  profusely  and  hurried 
them  below.  .  .  .  Morning  was  bewildered.  He  had 
spoken  no  word,  but  helped  the  others  carry  the  body,  a 
wobbly  deputation,  down  among  the  hammocks.  .  .  . 
He  heard  the  voices  of  those  maimed  in  mind.  .  .  . 
He  placed  his  end  of  the  soldier's  body  down,  left  his 
companions,  and  made  his  way  forward,  to  where  the 


84  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

hammocks  were  farther  apart.  Early  years  had  given 
him  a  sort  of  enlisted  man's  consciousness  of  things ;  and 
he  knew  now  not  to  take  another's  place.  He  chose  one 
from  a  pile  of  hammocks  and  slung  it  forward,  close  to 
the  bulk-head  of  the  bedlam,  and  well  out  of  the  lights. 
.  .  .  He  lay  across  his  only  baggage,  a  package  con 
taining  a  thousand  sheets  of  Chinese  parchment.  He 
lay  rigid,  trying  to  remember  if  out-going  ships  took  a 
pilot  out  of  Nagasaki. 

He  heard  the  anchor-chain.  He  was  very  close  to  it. 
The  voices  of  the  sun-struck  and  vino-maddened  men 
from  the  Islands  were  deadened  by  the  hideous  grating 
of  the  links  in  the  socket.  ...  It  was  not  too  late 
for  him  to  be  put  ashore  even  now ;  since  it  was  war 
time.  Of  course  there  would  be  a  pilot,  for  the  harbor 
was  mined.  .  .  .  He  drew  the  canvas  about  his  ears, 
but  the  voices  of  the  brain-dead  men  reached  him. 
.  .  .  Cats,  pirates,  and  river-reptiles  terrified  them ; 
one  man  was  still  lost  in  a  jungle  set  with  bolo-traps ; 
the  emptiness  of  others  was  filled  by  strange  abomina 
tions  glad  of  the  flesh  again. 


18 

HE  had  been  listening  to  Duke  Fallows  for  a  long 
time — Duke's  voice  blended  with  war  and  storm 
and  a  woman's  laugh.  .  .  .  Then  he  reverted  to  the 
idea  of  murdering  Ferry.  Finally  someone  said : 

"He's  a  new  one  from  Nagasaki.  He's  got  the 
fevers " 

And  then: 

"Who  in  hell  is  he?" 

They  began  to  ask  questions.  Morning  answered 
nothing.  Day  had  come.  He  heard  the  throb  of  the 
engines,  felt  the  swell  of  the  sea,  but  the  strength  of 
yesterday's  concentration  was  still  upon  him.  It  had 


AFIELD  85 

built  a  wall  around  him,  holding  the  life  of  his  mind 
there ;  as  a  life  of  low  desires  imprisons  the  spirit  to  its 
own  vile  region  after  death.  .  .  .  He  did  not  speak, 
but  looked  from  face  to  face  for  Ferry. 

They  ceased  to  expect  an  answer  from  him.  .  .  . 
A  young  doctor  appeared.  His  eyes  rolled  queerly;  his 
cheek  folded  over  his  mouth,  as  if  he  were  beyond 
words  from  drink,  and  tremendously  pleased  with  his 
prowess.  They  called  him  Nevin.  He  prepared  himself 
profoundly  for  speech.  Morning  now  realized  the  nim- 
bleness  of  Neviirs  hands,  unwinding  the  filthy  ban 
dages.  Presently,  the  Doctor  straightened  up,  passed 
his  hand  over  his  brow,  tongued  the  other  cheek,  and 
after  a  sweating  suspense  ordered : 

"Take  him  to  the  hospital." 

A    white    room.     .     .     .     The    Doctor    came    again. 
They  took   his   clothing  and  bathed   him.     .     .     .     He 
heard  and  smelled  the  sea  through  an  open  port     .     . 
glad,  but  utterly  weary     .     .     .     waiting  for  Ferry. 

"My  God — not  only  cut,  but  trampled "  a  voice 

said. 

Morning  felt  if  he  were  alone  with  Nevin  he  could 
have  said  something.  .  .  .  The  Doctor  looked  like 
a  jockey  he  had  once  known.  It  wasn't  that,  however, 
that  gave  him  heart,  but  the  quick,  gentle  hands.  .  .  . 
More  and  more  as  he  watched  the  dusty  face  with  its 
ineffable  gravity,  he  saw  bright  humanity  burning  like 
a  forge-fire  behind  the  mask.  This  brought  tears  to  his 
own  eyes.  Nevin,  seeing  them,  became  altogether  nerv 
ous  tp  look  at,  seemed  to  have  a  walnut  in  his  mouth. 

And  now  John  Morning  felt  himself  breaking — he 
was  brittle,  hard  like  glass — and  his  last  idea  concerned 
the  package  of  Chinese  parchment  which  they  had  not 
brought  from  the  hammock.  .  .  .  Six  days  after 
ward  he  asked  for  it. 

For  a  short  while  each  day,  during  the  interval,  he 
just  touched  the  main  idea  and  sank  back  to  sleep.  He 


86  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

suffered  very  little.  The  after-effects  of  his  journey 
from  Liaoyang  tried  to  murder  him  in  various  ways,  but 
relaxation,  nourishment,  good  air  and  care  worked  as  a 
sort  of  continuous  anaesthesia.  On  this  sixth  day  the 
Doctor  appeared  to  ignore  his  question  about  the  package 
of  paper,  but  leaned  forward,  glanced  to  the  right  and 
left,  as  if  to  communicate  a  plan  to  scuttle  the  ship,  and 
said: 

"You're  one  more  little  man.  You've  had  a  new  one 
each  day — pneumonia,  sclerosis,  brain-fever.  .  .  . 
My  hospital  report  on  your  case  will  drive  the  Major- 
Surgeon  into  permanent  retirement.  .  .  .  What 
did  you  say  was  the  matter  to-day — Chinese  parch 
ment?" 

"I've  got  so  much  to  do,  Doctor?      .     .     .     What  day 
is  this?" 

"Morning  of  the  nineteenth." 

The  color  swept  into  Morning's  face,  terror  into  his 
eyes. 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  so  bad  as  that — I  can't  lay  up 
any  more — twelve  days  left.  .  .  .  Two  weeks  and 
two  days  since  I  rode  out  of  Liaoyang " 

"I'll  have  to  let  'em  put  you  in  the  forward  hutch — 
if  you  begin  to  talk  Liaoyang,  now  that  your  fever's 
down.  There  wasn't  any  Americans  in  that  fighting " 

"I'm  not  a  soldier " 

Nevin  wrung  his  hands.  A  thought  recurred  to 
Morning. 

"There  was  a  couple  of  letters  in  my  clothes — one 
addressed  to  a  paper  in  'Frisco,  and  one  to  me." 

The  other  was  curious  enough  to  send  an  orderly  to 
search. 

"Have  him  bring  the  package  of  paper,  too,"  Morn 
ing  said.  When  all  was  brought  in  good  order,  he  added  : 
"This  letter  to  me  I'll  read  later.  The  larger  package  is 
Duke  Fallows'  first  hurried  story  of  the  battle  of  Liao 
yang.  I  won't  read  that  either,  because  I've  got  to  do 


AFIELD  87 

one  of  my  own.  I  did  one,  you  know — ten  times  as  long 
as  this — but  the  Hun  huises  got  it  on  the  Liao-crossing, 
from  Tawan — that's  where  I  got  cut  up.  Morning  of 
the  fourth,  it  was.  .  .  .  The  sorrel  mare  did  fifteen 
miles  with  her  guts  sticking  out,  and  I  walked  thirty  to 
Koupangtse,  with  these  wounds  and  smashed  from  a 
couple  of  falls — before  the  morning  of  the  fifth.  .  .  . 
You  can  look  at  Duke  Fallows'  story,  Doctor,  and  I'll 
take  a  little  doze " 

Fallows'  battle  was  done  clearly  as  a  football  game, 
and  as  briskly,  to  the  withdrawal  of  the  Russian  lines 
upon  the  inner  positions  of  the  city  and  the  flanking 
movement  of  Kuroki.  A  dramatic  pause  then  to  survey 
the  Russian  force  on  the  eve  of  disaster,  from  which 
the  reader  drew  the  big  moral  sickness.  After  that 
Lowenkampf,  the  millet  and  the  Ploughman.  In  quite  a 
remarkable  way  Fallows  turned  the  reader  now  from 
the  mass  to  the  individual.  In  a  little  trampled  place 
in  the  grain  the  battle  was  lost  by  the  Russians  and  won 
by  Japan.  .  .  .  The  Doctor  was  interrupted  several 
times,  but  no  force  was  missed.  It  was  a  new  voice  to 
him.  He  wondered  if  Fallows  would  make  the  world 
hear  it.  It  seemed  to  compel  a  reckoning. 

The  Fallows  story  laughed  all  the  way.  One  did  not 
have  to  look  twice  at  a  sentence  to  understand,  yet  two 
readings  did  not  wear  it  out,  nor  would  it  leave  one 
alone.  All  the  time  the  Doctor  read,  matters  he  had 
heard  in  delirium  from  the  lips  of  John  Morning  came 
back. 

Nevin  remembered  the  tears  on  the  first  morning, 
the  choke  in  his  own  throat ;  the  first  sight  of  the  wounds, 
the  queer,  extra  zeal  he  had  put  into  this  case.  Finally 
he  could  hardly  wait  to  learn  the  rest — chiefly  how  John 
Morning  had  happened  to  be  lying  in  the  darkest  end 
of  the  hammock-hole,  over  against  the  insane  compart 
ment.  .  .  .  Yet  he  did  not  wake  up  his  patient. 
When  Morning  finally  opened  his  eyes,  it  was  time  for 


88  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

nourishment.     Nevin  brought  a  glass  of  extra  wine  be 
fore  inquiring.         "First,  tell  me — has  Ferry  seen  me?" 

"Captain  Ferry,  the  quartermaster?" 

"Yes." 

"I'd  rather  think  not.  He's  about  occasionally — but 
his  truck  with  the  sick  men  is  mostly  transportation  and 
nourishment ' 

"The  second  time  I  came  to  ask  him  to  take  me 
across  that  afternoon — the  second  time,"  Morning  said 
slowly,  "he  told  me  that  if  I  appeared  on  his  deck  again 
he'd  send  me  ashore  in  irons.  You  see  the  Sickles  is  to 
beat  the  Coptic  in.  I  had  to  come.  Why,  the  mails 
couldn't  beat  me  through  from  Liaoyang.  ...  I 
finally  got  aboard  with  some  soldiers — but  I  would  have 
leeched  to  the  anchor.  .  .  .  And,  say,  I  think  I 
knew  you  that  morning.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could  let  go 
when  I  felt  your  hands " 

The  two  were  quiet.  The  Doctor  looked  obliquely  at 
an  open  port  with  one  eye  shut,  as  if  he  were  not  sure  of 
the  count.  .  .  . 

Accompanying  the  manuscript  was  a  letter  to  Noyc?, 
editor  of  Western  States,  which  chiefly  concerned  John 
Morning.  Many  brave  things  were  said.  .  .  . 
Nevin,  deeply  stirred  with  the  whole  business,  saw  the 
Ploughman  coming  forth  from  the  millet — saw  the 
Ploughman  going  home.  That  little  drama  so  dear  to 
Fallows'  heart  was  greater  than  Liaoyang.  Nevin  saw 
that  such  things  are  deathless.  .  .  .  Deathless — 
that's  the  word.  They  look  little  at  the  time  in  the  midst 
of  thunder  and  carnage;  but  the  thunder  dies  away  and 
the  rains  come  and  clean  the  stains — and  the  spirit  of  it 
all  lives  in  one  deed  or  in  one  sentence.  A  woman  nurses 
the  sick  at  Scutari,  and  the  Crimean  war  is  known  for 
the  angel  of  its  battlefield,  by  the  many  who  do  not  know 
who  fought,  nor  what  for.  .  .  .  Nevin  felt  the  big 
forces  throbbing  in  the  world — the  work  of  the  world. 
It  had  come  to  him  distantly  before.  It  had  pulled  him 


AFIELD  89 

out  of  the  comfort  and  ease  of  his  home  town  to  serve 
the  sick  at  sea  and  in  the  Islands. 

The  mystery  of  service.  He  had  never  dared  tell 
anyone.  His  voice  broke  so  easily.  He  had  covered 
the  weakness  in  leers  and  impediments,  so  the  world 
would  not  see.  He  had  talked  of  his  rights  and  his 
wages,  the  dusty-faced  little  man.  Mystery  of  Service — 
and  men  were  ashamed  when  it  touched  them. 

But  Fallows,  laughing  and  so  powerful,  this  boy's 
man-friend,  wasn't  afraid.  Was  the  boy  afraid?  What 
had  driven  him?  Did  the  boy  know  what  had  driven 
him?  What,  in  God's  name,  had  driven  this  human 
engine  that  would  not  stop — that  threw  off  poisons  and 
readjusted  itself  against  the  individual  and  collective 
organizations  of  death? 

Nevin  was  shaken  by  the  whole  story — it  girded, 
girdled  him.  .  .  .  Let  Ferry  come.  Ferry  was  one 
of  those  bleak  despoilers  of  human  effort,  whose  pres 
ence  consumed  the  reality  in  another.  What  was  Ferry 
anyway  and  Ferry's  sort — a  spoiled  child  or  an  ancient 
decadent  principle?  Was  it  merely  a  child-soul  with  a 
universe  ahead,  or  was  he  very  old  and  very  ill — incorri 
gible  self-love  on  its  road  back  to  nothing?  .  .  . 
But  the  Ploughman  lived,  Fallows  lived,  the  boy  Morn 
ing  lived — their  work  was  marching  on. 

The  Doctor  did  not  speak,  because  his  voice  would 
break.  He  went  about  his  work  instead — swift  mag 
netic  hands.  ...  At  least,  he  could  stand  between 
Morning  and  the  quartermaster — if  there  were  need. 

When  he  came  back  Morning  was  at  work,  a  hard 
bright  look  of  tension  about  him,  and  a  line  of  white 
under  the  strange  young  beard.  .  .  . 

"I  think  I  can  get  it  going  now.  I  think  it  is  be 
ginning  to  come  again,"  he  said  in  a  hushed  tone.  The 
Doctor  arranged  the  pillows  better,  sharpened  an  extra 
pencil  and  went  out. 

"I  may  have  to  do  those  first  pages  again,"  he  said 


90  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

an  hour  later.  "It's  hard  to  get  out  of  the  hospital — 
you  know,  what  I  mean — a  man's  bath  is  so  important 
to  one  lying-up  that  it  shuts  out  a  battle-line.  What  a 
fool  a  sick  man  is.  But  I'll  get  it " 

He  fell  asleep  in  the  dusk  before  the  candles  came. 
The  Doctor  found  him  cool,  his  breathing  normal. 
.  .  .  The  next  day  Morning  worked  until  Nevin  re 
monstrated. 

"You'll  die,  if  you  go  on " 

"I'll  die,  if  I  don't,"  said  Morning.  The  Doctor 
knew  in  his  heart  that  it  was  true.  Still  they  com 
promised.  That  night,  as  Morning  dropped  down  into 
an  abyss  of  exhaustion,  he  mumbled  the  whole  story  of 
Eve — the  sorrel  mare.  "She  rose  to  her  feet — white 
death  in  her  eyes,"  he  finished.  .  .  . 

Nothing  attracts  the  eye  on  ship-board  like  a  man 
at  work.  All  idle  ones  are  caught  in  the  current  and 
come  to  pay  their  devoirs  to  the  man  mastered  by  a 
strong  task.  .  .  .  The  Doctor  had  Morning  taken 
to  an  extra  berth  in  his  own  state-room.  The  door  had 
a  spring  lock,  for  many  medicines  and  stores  were  there. 
Ferry  was  not  likely  to  happen  in  the  Doctor's  quarters. 
The  latter  even  doubted  if  he  would  recognize  Morning. 
He  came  and  went,  as  the  task  drove  on.  Once  Morn 
ing  stopped  to  tell  him  about  the  deck  passage  on  the 
Tungsheng,  and  another  time  about  his  brush  with  the 
Hun  huises  in  the  ravine  across  the  river  from  Tawan. 
.  .  .  The  Doctor  saw  that  Morning  had  made  a  won 
derful  instrument  of  himself ;  he  studied  how  the  pas 
sion  of  an  artist  works  on  the  body  of  man.  The  other 
found  that  so  long  as  he  ate  regularly  and  fell  asleep 
without  a  struggle — he  was  allowed  to  go  on. 

The  Sickles  was  swinging  down  into  the  warmth. 
The  sick  man  had  a  bad  day,  lying  in  the  harbor  at 
Honolulu. 

"It  isn't  the  work,  Doctor — it's  the  ship's  stopping," 
Morning  said,  squirming  in  the  berth.  "It  makes  my 


AFIELD  91 

head  hot.  I  see  steamy  and  all  that.  I  had  it  when  the 
Tungsheng  lay  up  for  a  day  in  Chifu  on  account  of  the 
blow.  ...  I  had  it  that  day  in  Nagaski  when  Ferry 
wouldn't  take  me  on.  I'll  be  all  right  to-night.  .  .  . 

Give  me  a  little  touch  of  that  gin  and  lime  juice " 

"Just  lime  juice  when  heads  get  hot.  .  .  .  You're 
a  clever  little  drunkard.  I've  been  wondering  how  far 
you'd  go.  .  .  .  Yes,  we'll  clear  to-night.  .  .  . 
Ferry's  ashore.  Come  out  and  see  the  black  boys  dive 
for  pennies." 

"There's  something  doing  with  this  knife-wound — it 
doesn't  heal,"  the  Doctor  said,  mid-way  between  the  Is 
lands  and  the  Farallonnes.  "The  leg's  all  right.  Organs 
and  all  the  little  organs  seem  to  thrive  on  work.  That 
is,  they're  no  worse.  The  leg  heals — but  this  one — you 
seem  to  have  established  a  permanent  drain " 

"Fifty  pages  yesterday — two  hundred  words  a  page," 
Morning  muttered. 

"Yes — and  the  day  before — and  to-morrow — and  the 
night  we  left  Honolulu.  ...  If  a  man  worked  that 
way  for  money,  he'd  be  as  dead  as  Ferry  inside  of  a 
month.  .  .  .  Have  you  read  your  friend  Fallows' 
story  yet?" 

"No,  I  don't  dare — a  sick  man  isn't  all  himself.  And 
this  story  is  me.  It's  got  to  be  me.  It's  better  in  places 
than  the  other,  the  one  I  lost.  ...  I  haven't  read 
Duke's  letter  to  me  yet.  He's  strong  medicine.  He  keeps 
coming  back  to  me,  as  it  is.  I  want  to  get  off  alone  when 
the  work  is  done  and  think.  You  can't  see  him  all,  when 
he's  in  a  room  with  you.  .  .  .  He  was  like  you,  in 
being  a  friend  to  me.  .  .  .  Yet,  I  seem  to  know  you 
better.  You've  helped  me  so.  I'm  pretty  happy  the  way 
the  story  is  coming — 

"See  how  long  you  can  go  without  a  drink  to-day." 

"It  starts  me  off,  you  see.  It  doesn't  seem  to  touch 
me — just  steams  right  off  with  the  work " 


92  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

"That's  rotten  sophistry.     I'm  watching  you " 

Nevin  had  never  seen  a  body  so  driven  by  will. 
Morning  appeared  no  worse ;  certainly  he  was  no  better ; 
his  brain  was  in  absolute  abeyance ;  his  will  crashed 
through  clouds  of  enervation  and  irresolution.  There 
were  times  when  Nevin  believed  Morning  would  col 
lapse,  when  he  was  finished  with  Liaoyang,  but  he  was 
not  so  sure  now.  He  was  sure,  however,  that  he  must 
not  interfere  except  in  extremity.  .  .  .  This  was 
part  of  the  big  work.  Somehow  he  trusted  in  Duke 
Fallows — who  had  allowed  the  boy  to  write  the  de 
tailed  battle-end,  and  gone  back  to  Europe  to  feed  the 
babes  of  the  Ploughman.  That  last  made  him  want  to 
doctor  the  whole  world.  .  .  . 

Morning  had  done  the  story  and  re-written  the  lead. 
The  Sickles  would  enter  the  Gate  at  daylight. 

"There's  seventy-five  or  eighty  thousand  words  of  it. 
It's  good — unless  I'm  crazy.  It's  good,  unless  this  is 
all  a  dream.  God,  I'm  thirsty." 

With  the  work  done  for  the  day,  however,  he  asked 
for  lime  juice  and  water.  His  temperature  was  less 
than  two  points  above  normal ;  nothing  had  broken ;  yet 
the  voyage  had  not  replenished  Morning's  body.  He 
could  hardly  stand. 

"To-night  I'll  read  the  Fallows'  stuff — and  the 
letters.  .  .  .  Doctor,  can  you  get  me  ashore 
early?" 

"Think  a  minute — you  don't  know  what  you  ask " 

"Quarantine " 

Nevin  nodded.  "There's  extra  attention  to  a  ship  like 
this — they'll  have  to  see  that  running  wound  of  yours 
for  instance " 

"Not  if  you  don't  report  it " 

The  Doctor's  lower  jaw  reached  down,  and  to  the 
right,  finding  the  walnut.  "You  wouldn't  even  read 
Duke  Fallows'  story  before  you  wrote  yours.  A  man 
can't  lie  in  his  own  work " 


AFIELD  93 

"You've  been  so  good,"  Morning  said  huskily.  "I 
begin  to  expect  miracles " 

"You  can  get  messages — telegrams,  letters — ashore. 
.  .  .  And  then  it  may  only  take  a  couple  of  hours. 
There  isn't  any  contagion  here  that  I  know  of." 

Morning  first  read  Fallows'  letter  to  Noyes,  editor 
Western  States.  It  told  of  the  story  accompanying — but 
more  of  the  bearer.  Laughing,  loving-hearted,  eloquent 
—Fallows  was  all  through  it,  and  fine  gifts  of  the  man's 
thinking.  There  was  suggestion  to  Noyes  to  use  Morn 
ing's  story  and  get  it  across  simultaneously  in  New  York. 
"The  boy  has  never  yet,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  found  time 
to  arrange  a  decent  payment  for  his  work.  Please  ob 
serve  that  unless  some  one,  equally  as  capable,  gets  into 
Port  Arthur,  Morning's  story  will  be  the  biggest  feature 
of  the  war  in  a  newspaper  way.  I'm  going  on  to  Europe 
on  the  Ploughman  story.  Let  Morning  do  the  big  battle 
— I'll  begin  to  crackle  later." 

And  then  Morning  read  the  story.  .  .  .  His 
voice  trailed  up  finally  from  the  shadows  of  lower 
berth.  "It's  good,"  he  said  to  the  Doctor  after  mid 
night. 

"It's  dam'  good.  It's  better  than  mine.  .  .  .  He 
was  alive  with  it — I  mean  with  the  Ploughman.  It's  the 
way  he  did  it.  He  tried  to  get  it  across  before  we  sepa 
rated.  He  told  me  from  every  angle — told  Lowenkampf 
— told  them  all  at  the  station  at  Yentai.  None  of  us 
could  see.  .  .  .  He  was  crazed  about  it — that  we 
couldn't  see.  We  were  all  choked  with  blood  and  death 
that  night.  He  said  Kuropatkin  and  the  others  would 
see  that  the  Ploughman  was  right — if  they  had  a  sense 
of  humor.  Such  density  to  humor,  he  called  the  sin 

against  the  Holy  Ghost 

After  they  had  talked  many  minutes,  Morning 
broke  the  seal  to  his  own  letter  and  learned  why 
he  had  been  barred  from  the  earlier  Japanese 
armies. 


94  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

19 


fineness  of  Fallows,  of  Nevin,  of  Endicott,  the 
A  station-agent  at  Tongu,  the  risen  humanity  of  the 
Ploughman  —  Morning's  soul  to  sense  these  men  was 
empty  within  him.  All  that  he  knew  was  blood  and 
blow  and  force  and  mass  and  hate.  He  lay  panting  and 
possessed.  As  he  had  plotted  in  delirium  how  to  kill 
Ferry,  dwelling  upon  the  process  and  the  death  ;  so 
Reever  Kennard  came  in  now  for  a  hatred  as  perfect  and 
destructive.  The  letter  had  called  up  something  of  the 
same  force  w.hich  had  driven  John  Morning  from  Liao- 
yang,  over  or  through  every  barrier  to  the  present  hour 
in  which  the  Sickles  lay  off  the  entrance  of  the  Golden 
Gate  waiting  for  dawn,  thirty-six  hours  ahead  of  the 
Coptic. 

His  work  was  diminished  in  his  own  mind  ;  the  value 
of  his  story  was  lost,  the  zest  to  market  it,  the  sense  of 
the  world's  waiting.  He  was  a  thief  in  the  eyes  of  men. 
A  man  cannot  steal.  They  believed  him  a  thief.  .  .  . 
He  thought  of  moving  about  the  halls  of  the  Imperial 
that  day  —  of  his  thoughts  as  he  had  watched  from  the 
window  in  the  billiard-room  while  the  picture  was  taken. 
He  had  been  tranced  in  terror.  .  .  .  Had  he  but 
known,  he  would  have  made  a  hell  in  that  house.  He 
saw  Reever  Kennard  again  on  the  deck  of  the  Sickles  — 
his  turning  to  Kennard  for  help  —  unparalleled  shame. 
.  .  .  The  thing  he  desired  with  such  terrible  zeal 
now  was  enacted  in  his  brain.  That  hour  on  the  deck 
of  the  Sickles  was  repeated,  but  this  time  he  knew  what 
Kennard  had  done.  He  called  him  to  the  lie  in  imagina 
tion.  The  jowl  was  heavy  with  scorn  and  the  small 
slow  eyes  were  bright  with  fear  —  yet  they  took  nothing 
back  and  Morning  moved  closer  and  closer  demanding, 
until  the  devil  broke  from  him,  and  his  knotted  hand 
sank  into  the  soft  center  of  the  man.  He  watched  the 
writhing  of  that  clean  flanneled  liar,  watched  him  arise. 


AFIELD  95 

The  hand  sank  once  more.  .  .  .  the  vile  play  romp 
ing  through  his  mind  again  and  again — hideous  fighting 
of  a  man  brought  up  among  stable  and  race-track  and 
freight-route  ruffians — the  fighting  that  feels  no  pain 
and  only  a  knockout  can  stop.  . 

"Wow — it's  hot  as  hell  in  here,"  came  from  Nevin  in 
the  upper  bunk. 

A  little  before  dawn,  utterly  ravaged  by  the  poison 
of  his  thinking,  Morning  was  struck  by  the  big  idea.  He 
turned  on  the  light,  steadied  himself  to  paper  and  pen 
cil  and  wrote  to  Noyes  of  the  Western  States: 

Inclosed  find  (I)  Duke  Fallows'  first  story  of 
Liaoyang;  (II)  his  letter  to  you,  containing  among 
other  things  information  concerning  the  bearer; 
(III)  the  first  ten  thousand  words  of  my  eighty- 
thousand-word  story  of  the  battle  fought  a  month 
ago  to  an  hour — including  sketches  of  Kuropatkin, 
and  others,  covering  exactly  terrain,  the  entire  po 
sition,  strategy,  and  finally  the  cause  of  the  Russian 
disaster,  with  word-picture  of  the  retreat,  done  on 
the  day  when  it  was  at  its  height.  The  writer  left 
the  field  and  made  the  journey  to  Koupangtse  alone, 
nearly  one  hundred  miles  to  the  railroad.  This  is  the 
only  American  eye-witness  story  besides  Fallows'. 
The  mails  of  the  second-hand  reports  will  not  reach 
here  before  the  arrival  of  the  Coptic.  ...  I  will 
sell  this  story  to  the  Western  States  on  condition  that 
it  appear  in  the  World-News,  New  York,  simulta 
neously — the  story  to  be  run  in  not  less  than  seven 
installments,  beginning  by  telegraph  to-morrow.  I 
insist  on  the  World-News,  but  have  no  objection  to 
the  general  syndicating  of  the  story  by  the  Western 
States,  my  price  for  the  American  newspaper  rights 
being  $1,800  and  transportation  to  New  York. 
"In  God's  name,  are  you  .doing  another  book?'"' 
Nevin  demanded,  letting  himself  down  from  the  berth. 
"What's  the  matter — you're  on  fire?'' 


96  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Morning  was  counting  off  the  large  first  installment 
of  his  manuscript.  He  placed  it  upon  the  table,  with  the 
Fallows'  story  and  the  two  letters  to  Noyes.  .  .  . 
Then  he  put  an  empty  water-pitcher  on  it,  restoring  the 
balance  of  his  story  to  its  place  under  his  pillow. 

"Listen"  he  said,  clutching  Nevin's  arm,  "here's  the 
whole  thing — if  I'm  sick  to-morrow.  Give  it  to  the  re 
porter  from  the  Western  States — make  him  see  it  is  life- 
blood.  Make  him  rush  with  it  to  Noyes.  It's  the  whole 
business.  .  .  .  He'll  get  it — before  the  quarantine 
is  lifted,  if  you — oh,  if  you  can!  It's  all  there.  .  .  . 
You  do  this  for  me?" 

"And  where  will  you  be  all  this  time 

"Oh,  Nevin — Nevin — for  God's  sake  put  me  to  sleep ! 
I'm  full  of  burning  and  devils!  Fill  up  that  needle 
business  and  put  me  to  sleep!  ...  I  can't  wait  to 
get  across  in  the  New  York  World-News.  That's  Reever 
Kennard's  own  paper." 

20 

THE  voices  sounded  far  and  muted — voices  one 
might  hear  when  swimming  under  water.  It  was 
easier  for  him  to  stay  down  than  rise  and  answer.  He 
seemed  carried  in  the  strong  flow  of  a  river,  and  pre 
served  a  consciousness,  very  vague,  that  it  meant  death 
to  go  down  with  the  stream.  At  last,  opening  his  eyes, 
he  saw  the  city  over  the  pier-sheds. 

The  rest  of  the  manuscript  was  still  under  the  pil 
low,  but  the  water-pitcher  rested  upon  the  bare  wood  of 
the  table.  It  was  after  twelve.  His  deadly  fury  had 
burned  itself  out.  The  thought  of  the  World-News  tak 
ing  the  story,  steadied  his  weakness.  It  was  much 
harder  to  dress  than  usual,  however.  He  had  no  shore 
clothes,  but  Nevin  would  see  to  that  for  him.  With  a 
glad  thrill,  he  realized  that  the  Sickles  had  passed  the 
quarantine,  or  she  wouldn't  be  in  the  slip.  His  mind 


AFIELD  97 

turned  to  Nevin  again,  and  when  he  was  thinking  about 
this  deep-rooted  habit  the  voyage  had  inculcated,  the 
Doctor  himself  entered. 

"Well,  you  gave  me  a  night." 

"You'll  have  some  rest  now." 

"I've  brought  some  clothes  for  you  to  go  ashore 
with.  .  .  .  The  Western  States  got  your  story  two 
hours  ago.  Ferry  has  gone  ashore." 

"Did  the  reporter  take  it  here — or  from  across  the 
harbor  in  quarantine?" 

"He  was  waiting  with  others — for  us  to  be  turned 
loose.  I  gave  him  the  stuff  as  we  were  putting  about. 
He  didn't  come  aboard,  I  saw  his  launch  reach  landing. 
I  told  him  to  put  the  stuff  into  the  hands  of  Noyes  and 
to  hurry  back.  All  of  which  he  did " 

"Why  to  hurry  back?" 

The  little  man's  mouth  gave  way  to  strange  twist- 
ings,  and  he  answered  grudgingly,  "Well,  I  had  a  story 
to  give  him." 

Morning  took  a  room  at  the  Armory,  refusing  a  loan 
from  the  Doctor.  "I'll  have  it  shortly — plenty,  I  think. 
I'll  lie  up  there  until  I  hear  from  Noyes.  I  may  hurry 
East— 

The  process  was  not  clear  exactly,  but  the  old  story 
of  Mio  Amiga  had  given  him  a  terror  of  borrowing. 
The  Armory  was  nearby.  It  was  clean  and  cheap.  This 
little  decision  of  choosing  the  Armory,  a  result  of  Mio 
Amiga,  too,  is  the  most  important  so  far.  .  .  .  The 
Doctor  went  with  him.  The  two  were  hushed  and  sick 
with  things  to  say.  Nevin  felt  he  was  losing  the  throb 
of  great  service ;  that  he  could  not  hold  it  all  after  this 
power-house  of  a  man  went  his  way.  It  was  not  only 
Morning,  but  Morning  was  attached  to  the  large,  quiet 
doings  and  seeings  of  the  stranger  named  Duke  Fal 
lows. 

Morning  loved  the  Doctor.  Nevin  did  not  tower; 
Nevin  was  instantly  in  his  comprehension.  Their 


9 8  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

throats  tightened.  .  .  .  Nevin  saw  him  to  the  light 
little  room,  and  said  as  he  was  leaving : 

"I've  been  all  over  Chinatown,  looking  up  a  formula 
for  that  wound  that  won't  heal.  It's  this — full  direc 
tions  inclosed.  You'll  have  to  get  settled  before  you  try 
it  out." 

He  disappeared  saying  he  would  be  back.  Morning 
put  the  envelope  in  a  wallet,  which  he  had  carried  afield. 
.  .  .  It  was  not  yet  two  in  the  afternoon.  There 
was  a  timorous  rap  at  the  door.  Morning's  head  dropped 
over  drowsily.  The  door  opened  just  a  little  and  a  voice 
said: 

"Is  there  a  sick  American  soldier  in  here?" 

It  was  low  and  timorous  like  the  tapping,  but  there 
was  a  laugh  in  it,  and  something  that  drove  the  wildness 
out  of  his  heart. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"And  may  I  come  in?" 

"Yes." 

She  was  slight  and  young  and  pale.  She  passed  be 
tween  the  window  and  his  eyes.  Her  brown  hair  seemed 
half-transparent.  The  day  was  bright,  but  not  yellow ; 
its  soft  gray  luster  was  exactly  the  woman's  tone.  There 
was  a  curious  unreality  about  the  whole  figure.  The 
light  in  her  eyes  was  like  the  light  in  the  window ;  gray 
eyes  and  very  deep.  So  quietly,  she  came,  and  the  day 
was  quiet,  the  house — a  queer  hush  everywhere. 

"There  are  a  few  of  us  who  meet  the  transports — 
and  call  on  the  sick  soldiers.  We  talk  to  them — write 
letters  or  telegrams.  Sometimes  they  are  very  glad.  All 
we  want  is  to  help.  I  haven't  tried  many  times 
before " 

Someone  had  told  him  once  of  a  woman  in  London, 
who  met  the  human  drift  in  from  the  far  tides  of  chance 
— and  made  their  passing  or  their  healing  dear  as  heaven. 
He  had  always  kept  the  picture.  He  scarcely  heard  all 
that  this  young  woman  was  saying. 


AFIELD  99 

She  was  not  beautiful,  not  even  pretty.  You  would 
see  her  last  in  a  room  full  of  women.  Under  her  eyes — 
he  could  not  tell  just  where — there  was  a  line  or  shadow 
of  strange  charm ;  and  where  the  corner  of  her  eye-lids 
folded  into  the  temple  a  delicate  perfection  lived ;  her 
frail  back  had  a  line  of  beauty — again,  he  could  not 
describe  this.  The  straightness  of  the  figure  was  that  of 
lightness,  of  aspiration.  .  .  .  Sometimes  she  seemed 
just  a  girl.  Her  underlip  pursed  a  little ;  it  was  not  red. 
.  .  .  She  seemed  waiting  with  the  lightness  of  a 
thistle — waiting  and  listening  in  the  lull  before  a  wind. 

"My  name  is  Betty  Berry." 

"Mine  is  John  Morning." 

She  told  him  that  she  was  a  musician,  and  that  San 
Francisco  was  her  home,  although  she  was  much  away. 
He  saw  her  with  something  that  Duke  Fallows  had 
given  him.  The  hush  deepened  with  the  thought.  Had 
he  taken  from  that  tired  breast  a  certain  age  and  clear- 
eyedness  and  judgment  of  the  ways  of  love-women? 
There  might  have  been  reality  in  this  ;  certainly  there 
was  reality  in  his  not  havinrj  seen  a  white  girl  in  many 
months.  He  was  changed ;  his  v;ork  done  for  the  mo 
ment;  he  was  very  tired  and  hungry  for  something  she 
brought.  .  .  .  "Betty  Berry." 

He  was  changed.  This  Western  world  was  new  to 
him.  He  seemed  old  to  the  East — old,  much-traveled, 
and  very  weary ;  here  was  faith  and  tenderness  and  real 
ity.  Duke  Fallows'  city — Duke  had  strangely  intrenched 
himself  here;  and  this  wraith  of  an  angel  who  came  to 
him  ministering!  .  .  .  Malice  and  ambition — repri 
sal  and  murder  were  gone.  What  a  dirty  little  man  he 
had  been — how  rotten  with  self,  how  furious  and  un 
speakable.  Why  had  he  not  seen  it?  AVhy  had  he  re 
jected  Duke  Fallows  with  his  brain  and  accepted  him 
with  his  soul?  The  soul — what  queer  place  in  a  man 
is  this?  Duke  Fallows,  Lowenkampf — were  in  and  out, 
and  Nevin,  even  the  Ploughman  now ;  and  this  little  gray 


ioo  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

hushed  spirit  of  a  girl  had  come  straight  to  his  soul. 
Why  could  one  not  always  feel  these  Presences  ?  Would 
such  destroying  and  malignant  hatred  return  as  that  for 
Reever  Kennard  last  night  ?  Was  it  because  he  had  been 
so  passionate  for  self — that  until  now,  (when  he  was 
resting  and  she  came),  decency,  delight,  nor  vision  had 
been  able  to  break  through  the  deadly  self-turned  cur 
rents?  .  .  .  This  was  like  his  finer  self  coming  into 
the  room. 

"How  did  you  know  that  boys  coming  home — need 
to  see  you?"  he  asked.  He  had  to  be  very  careful  and 
arrange  what  he  meant  to  say  briskly  and  short.  Most 
of  his  thoughts  would  not  do  at  all  to  speak. 

"Women  know.  So  many  boys  come  home — like 
those  on  the  Sickles  whom  one  is  not  allowed  to  see.  I 
have  watched  them  going  out,  too.  They  don't  know  why 
they  go.  They  don't  expect  to  find  a  new  country,  and 
yet  it  seems  as  if  they  must  go  and  look.  And  many 
come  home  so  numbed  with  loneliness  that  they  have  for 
gotten  what  they  need." 

"Then  women  know  what  boys — men  are?" 

She  smiled,  and  seemed  listening — her  lips  pursed, 
her  eyes  like  a  cloudy  dawn,  turned  from  him  slightly. 
What  did  she  hear  continually  that  did  not  come  to 
him? 

"I  mean  the  men,"  he  added,  "whom  the  world  calls 
its  bravest — the  gaunt  explorers  and  fighters — do  women 
know  what  boys  they  are?" 

"I  don't  know  those  whom  the  world  calls  its 
bravest." 

"I  think  I  needed  to  have  you  come,"  he  said,  "but 
I  didn't  know  it." 

The  hush  was  in  the  room  again.  Morning  felt  like 
a  little  boy — and  as  if  she  were  a  child  with  braids  be 
hind.  They  felt  wonderful  things,  but  could  only  talk 
sillinesses.  .  .  .  There  was  something  different  about 
her  every  time  he  looked.  It  seemed  if  she  were  gone; 


AFIELD  10 1 

he  could  not  summon  her  face  to  mind.  He  did  not 
understand  it  then. 

It  had  grown  quite  a  little  darker  before  they  no 
ticed.  The  far  rumble  of  thunder  finally  made  them  see 
a  storm  gathering. 

"You  won't  go  until  it's  over?" 

"It  might  be  better  for  me  to  go  now — before  it 
begins." 

"Do  you  live  far?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  stay — please." 

She  drew  her  chair  closer.  They  tried  to  tell  each 
other  of  what  they  had  been,  but  this  didn't  prosper. 
The  peculiar  thing  was  that  their  history  seemed  to  be 
gin  from  now — all  was  far  and  unimportant  but  this. 
Morning,  moreover,  did  not  mean  to  spoil  the  primary 
idea  in  her  mind  of  his  being  an  American  soldier; 
though  all  his  recent  history  impinged  upon  the  one  fact 
that  he  wasn't.  .  .  .  He  tried  to  hold  her  face  in  his 
mind  with  shut  eyes,  but  it  was  a  forced  and  unfair  pic 
ture  when  mentally  dragged  there.  .  .  .  The  thun 
der  increased  and  the  rain. 

"Once  when  I  was  little,"  she  said,  "I  was  alone  in 
the  house  when  a  storm  came,  and  I  was  so  frightened 
that  day — that  I  never  could  be  since,  in  just  the  same 
way." 

Perfect  revelation.  Something  in  him  wished  she 
were  pretty.  She  was  such  a  shy  and  shadowy  creature. 
He  called  to  mind  the  girls  he  had  known — coarse  and 
tawdry  lot,  poor  things.  Betty  Berry  was  all  that  they 
were  not ;  yet  some  of  them  were  prettier.  He  could  see 
their  faces  quite  distinctly,  and  this  startled  him,  be 
cause  shutting  his  eyes  from  full  gaze  at  this  girl,  he 
could  not  see  her  twice  the  same.  .  .  .  The  weather 
cleared.  They  were  together  in  silence  for  moments  at 
a  time.  She  became  more  and  more  like  a  wraith  when 
the  natural  dusk  thickened. 


102  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

"Was  it  hard  for  you  to  knock  and  speak — that  first 
moment  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Do — do  any  of  the  soldiers  ever  misunderstand?" 

"No " 

"That's  fine  of  them,"  he  granted. 

"They  couldn't  when  one  has  no  thought,  only  to  be 
kind  to  them " 

"You  think  they  see  that  at  once?" 

"They  must." 

"A  man  doesn't  know  all  about  soldiers  simply  be 
cause  he  'soldiers'  with  them,"  Morning  said. 

"And  then " 

"Yes " 

"They  look  at  me  and  it's  very  plain  that  I  come  just 
to  be  good  to  them.  .  .  .  They  think  of  me  in  the 
same  way  as  a  Salvation  Army  lassie  or  a  mis 
sionary " 

"Now,  that's  queer,"  said  he.  "It  didn't  occur  to  me 
at  all.  It  would  never  come  to  me  to  ask  you  to  leave 
a  tract." 

"And  I  didn't  feel  like  a  missionary,  either.  .  .  . 
Now  it's  all  cleared  again.  I  must  go." 

There  was  a  pang.  .  .  .  Where  was  Nevin? 
Why  had  Noyes  or  someone  from  the  Western  States 
not  come  to  him?  Coming  back  to  these  things  pained. 
.  .  .  A  boy  in  the  halls  called  the  afternoon  papers 
in  a  modified  voice. 

"Will  you  get  me  the  papers — especially  the  Western 
States?" 

She  hurried  to  call  the  boy.  He  saw  the  huge  picture 
of  Duke  Fallows  on  the  sheet  toward  him,  as  she  re- 
entered. 

"This  is  what  I  want,"  he  said  hoarsely,  taking  the 
Western  States.  .  .  . 

"John  Morning,"  she  whispered. 

In  inch  letters  across  the  top — there  it  was: 


AFIELD  103 

JOHN  MORNING  BRINGS  IN  THE  FIRST  FAL 
LOWS  STORY. 

Full  Day  Ahead  of  Coptic  Mails.  .  .  .  Morning 
Leaves  Fallows  on  the  Field  Beyond  Liaoyang,  Night  of 
September  3rd.  .  .  .  Two  Americans  Alone  See 
Great  Battle.  .  .  .  The  Incomparable  Fallows' 
Story  Printed  in  Full  in  the  Western  States  To-day. 
.  .  .  John  Morning's  Detail  Picture — a  Book  in  It 
self — Begins  in  the  Western  States  To-morrow — Big 
gest  Newspaper  Feature  of  the  Year's  Campaign.  .  .  . 
Read  To-day  How  John  Morning  Brought  in  the  News 
- — a  Story  of  Unparalleled  Daring  and  Superhuman 
Endurance.  .  .  . 

Such  was  the  head  and  the  big-print  captions. 
Morning's  riding  forth  from  Liaoyang  on  the  night  of 
the  third — the  sorrel  mare — the  Hun  Crossing — the  Liao 
Crossing  and  the  fight  with  the  river-bandits — the  run 
away  of  the  sorrel  and  her  broken  heart — his  journey 
dazed  and  delirious,  covered  with  wounds,  thirty  miles  to 
Koupangtse — Tongu — the  battle  to  get  aboard  the 
Sickles,  first,  second,  and  third  attempts — redoing  the 
great  story  on  shipboard — all  this  in  form  of  an  inter 
view  and  printed  as  a  local  story,  ran  ahead  of  the  Duke 
Fallows  article. 

A  great  moment,  and  John  Morning,  forgetting  all 
else,  even  forgetting  the  girl  who  glanced  at  him  with 
awed  and  troubled  eyes,  held  hard  for  a  moment  to  the 
one  realization :  Noyes  would  not  have  printed,  "Be 
gins  in  the  Western  States  to-morrow/'  had  he  not  ar 
ranged  for  publication  in  Reever  Kennard's  World- 
News.  .  .  . 

Her  chair  was  farther  away.  She  waited  for  him — 
as  one  expecting  to  be  called.  He  turned ;  their  eyes 
met  full. 

"You  are  not  an  American  soldier " 


104  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

"I  am  an  American.  I  have  had  a  hard  time,  almost 
as  hard  as  any  soldier  could " 

"I  wouldn't  have  come — the  whole  city  will  serve 
you : 

"That's  why  I  didn't  speak.  No  soldier  could  have 
gotten  more  good." 

Her  eyes  turned  downward.  The  room  was  almost 
dark.  A  knock  at  the  door. 

"I  must  go " 

He  held  out  his  hand.     "Won't  you  come  again?" 

"It  doesn't  seem " 

He  would  not  let  her  hand  go.  "Oh,  won't  you  come 
again  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Thank  you." 

Betty  Berry  opened  the  door  for  Noyes  and  another, 
and  she  passed  out. 

21 

NOYES  said  lightly: 
"The  young   lady   doesn't   need  to   go   on   our 
account ' 

"But  she's  gone,"  Morning  muttered.  The  walls  gave 
him  back  the  words. 

"If  it's  any  interest  to  you,  Morning,  I've  followed 
directions  in  your  letter,"  the  editor  said  presently. 

"The  World-News " 

"That's  what  I  waited  for — before  coming  here. 
They're  using  Field's  local  story  to-morrow  morning. 
It's  on  the  wire  to  them  now.  This  is  Field." 

"I  had  the  pleasure  of  bringing  in  your  manuscript 
from  the  Sickles  rather  early  this  morning,"  said  the  lat 
ter.  "Also  I  did  the  story  that  Doctor  Nevin  told 
me." 

"I  wish  he  would  come,"  said  Morning. 

"Nevin?" 


AFIELD  105 

"Yes." 

"He's  on  his  toes  where  you  are  concerned,"  said 
Field. 

"He  has  done  much  for  me ' 

"Friend  Fallows  is  rather  strong  for  you,  too,  I 
should  say,"  Noyes  offered. 

He  was  a  pale,  soft,  middle-aged  man  who  gave  the 
impression  of  being  more  forceful  than  he  looked. 

"I  owe  everything  to  him,"  said  Morning. 

"By  the  way,  Morning,  what  were  you  mad  at,  when 
you  wrote  that  letter  of  directions  to  me?  I  followed 
it  carefully  as  you  said — price — World-News — every 
thing.  We'll  have  a  lot  of  other  papers  beside  the 
World-Nczvs — but  that  letter  made  me  hot  under  the 
collar  every  time  I  glanced  at  it— 

"I  was  just  about  to  break.  I  was  very  sick  of 
words.  Every  sentence  was  like  drawing  a  rusty  chain 
in  one  ear  and  out  the  other." 

"Of  course  you  know  you've  got  the  world  by  the 
tail  on  this  Russian  end — this  Liaoyang  story,"  Noyes 
observed. 

"I've  written  the  story.  The  big  part  of  the  copy 
is  here  for  you." 

"You're  not  going  to  quit  now.  Are  you  down  and 
out  physically?" 

"No." 

"Why,  Morning,"  Field  broke  in,  "you  ought  to  make 
ten  thousand  dollars  in  the  next  thirty  days.  You've 
got  a  big  feature  for  every  magazine  in  America — and 
then  the  book." 

"The  chance  doesn't  come  but  once  in  a  life  time — 
and  then  only  to  God's  chosen  few,  who  work  like  hell," 
said  Noyes,  and  he  sat  back  to  review  this  particularly 
finished  remark. 

"What  would  you  do?"  Morning  asked. 

"I'd  start  for  New  York  to-night.  Field's  story  about 
you — the  one  we  run  to-night  at  the  head  of  Fallows' 


106  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

story — will  start  the  game.  A  couple  of  installments  of 
your  big  yarn  will  have  appeared  in  the  World-News 
when  you  reach  New  York.  If  it  ends  as  good  as  it  be 
gins,  you'll  have  the  big  town  groggy  within  a  week. 
You'll  receive  the  magazine  editors  in  your  hotel,  con 
tract  to  furnish  so  much — and  talk  off  same  to  expert 
typists.  That's  the  way  things  are  done.  You've  got 
the  goods.  New  York  serves  a  man  like  that.  It's 
nothing  to  me,  but  I  know  the  game — even  if  I  never 
cornered  a  Liaoyang  story.  Fallows  said  you  have  done 
more  work  for  less  money  than  any  man  in  America. 
He's  one  of  our  owners ' 

So  Noyes  rambled  on ;  Field  breaking  in  with  fresh 
and  timely  zest.  Morning  had  not  looked  beyond  the 
main  story.  He  saw  separate  articles  now  in  every 
phase.  It  would  work  out.  .  .  .  Four  days  of  rest 
— looking  out  of  the  car-window.  He  would  land  in 
New  York  once  and  for  all — land  hard — do  it  all  at 
once.  Then  he  would  rest.  .  .  .  He  was  seething 
again.  .  .  .  With  this  advantage  he  could  break  in 
to  the  markets  that  would  stand  aloof  from  his  ordinary 
product  for  years.  All  day  his  devil  had  slept,  and  now 
was  awake  for  rough  play  in  the  dusk.  His  dreams 
organized— the  big  markets — breaking  out  of  the  news 
papers  into  the  famous  publications !  He  had  the  stuff. 
It  would  be  as  Noyes  said.  He  would  have  thought  of 
it  for  another  man. 

"How  soon  can  I  start?"  he  said. 

"Four  or  five  hours." 

"I'm  obliged  to  you.  .  .  .  Fallows  seems  still 
with  me,"  he  said  strangely.  ...  "I  must  see 
Nevin " 

There  was  a  ringing  in  his  brain  at  some  unused 
door,  but  he  did  not  answer.  He  was  driven  again. 
Harrowing  the  idea  of  waiting  a  single  day  ...  in 
these  modern  hours  when  world-events  are  so  swiftly 
forgotten. 


AFIELD  107 

Everything  was  settled.  Morning  was  taken  from 
place  to  place  in  a  cab.  Noyes  not  only  was  conscien 
tious  about  seeing  to  every  detail  for  Friend  Fallows — 
but  he  made  it  very  clear  that  he  was  not  accustomed  to 
spend  his  evenings  down-town.  From  time  to  time,  he 
dropped  hints  of  what  he  would  be  doing  at  home  at 
this  hour.  Down-town  nights  were  all  put  away  for 
him,  he  declared. 

The  balance  of  the  manuscript  was  locked  in  the  safe 
at  the  Western  States  to  be  set  up  to-morrow,  and  proofs 
sent  out.  The  second  and  possibly  third  installments  of 
the  story  would  go  to  the  World-News  by  telegraph, 
the  rest  follow  by  mail. 

"To-morrow  morning,  out  in  the  mountains,  you'll 
have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  New  York  is  read 
ing  Field's  story  which  we  ran  to-day.  Is  that  stuff  the 
Doctor  gave  us,  right,  Morning?" 

"Huh  ?" 

"Did  you  dream  about  that  sorrel  mare — entrails 
out — walking  like  a  man — white  death  in  her  eyes?" 
Noyes  pursued. 

"God,  I  wonder  if  I  did?  Did  I  dream  that  I  did  the 
big  story  twice? — 

He  was  in  pain ;  there  was  lameness  in  his  mind  at 
being  driven  again.  He  wished  Noyes  would  go  home. 

.  .  Messengers  were  back  and  forth  to  the  Sickles 
trying  to  get  Nevin.  Transportation  to  New  York  was 
the  newspaper's  affair ;  when  it  was  handed  him,  some 
thing  went  from  Morning  that  he  could  not  get  again. 
There  was  much  to  drink.  Noyes  had  put  all  this  from 
him  so  long  that  he  found  the  novelty  humorous — and 
yet,  what  a  bore  it  was  after  all!  Field  was  a  steaming 
geyser  of  enthusiasms.  Both  talked.  Others  talked. 
Morning  was  sick  with  words.  He  had  not  had  words 
drummed  into  his  brain  in  so  long.  He  half-realized 
that  his  impatience  for  all  these  things  was  disgust  at 
himself,  but  all  his  past  years,  and  their  one-pointed  aim 


io8  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

held  him  now.    This  was  his  great  chance.     .     .     .     He 
wanted  Nevin. 

These  city  men  gave  him  everything,  and  disap 
pointed  him.  Had  he  been  forced  to  battle  with  them  for 
markets ;  had  he  been  forced  to  accept  the  simple  column 
rate,  he  could  not  have  seen  them  as  now.  Because  they 
had  become  his  servants,  he  touched  their  weakness. 
And  what  giants  he  had  known — Fallows  and  Nevin — 
and  Endicott,  the  little  Englishman  at  Tongu.  .  .  . 
You  must  answer  a  man's  need  when  that  need  is  des 
perate — to  make  a  heart-hold.  A  man  makes  his  friends 
before  his  world  capitulates. 

He  was  waiting  in  the  bar  of  the  Polander.  .  .  . 
Nevin  had  not  been  found.  Morning  was  clothed,  ex 
pensed;  his  order  upon  New  York  for  the  price  of  the 
story  would  not  be  touched  until  he  reached  there.  He 
had  won  already ;  he  had  the  world  by  the  tail.  .  . 
Nevin  did  not  come.  There  was  no  bite  in  the  drink  for 
Morning.  He  was  in  pain ;  others  made  a  night  of  it. 
He  struggled  in  the  pits  of  self,  that  sleepless,  never- 
forgetting  self.  There  was  a  calling,  a  calling  deep 
within,  but  the  outer  noise  spoiled  the  meaning.  Men 
drank  with  single  aim ;  they  drank  like  Russian  officers 
— to  get  drunk.  They  were  drunk ;  all  was  rich  and  free. 
Noyes  knew  many  whom  he  saw  every  day,  and  many 
whom  he  had  seen  long  ago.  He  called  them  forward  to 
meet  Morning,  who  had  brought  in  the  story.  .  .  . 
Morning  who  knew  Duke  Fallows — Morning  who  had 
the  big  story  of  the  year,  beginning  to-morrow.  .  .  . 
And  always  when  they  passed,  Noyes  remarked  that  the 
down-town  stuff  was  silly  as  the  devil.  White  and  cleri 
cal,  his  oaths  were  effective.  He  drank  hard  and  well 
as  men  go.  Field  drank  well — his  impulses  becoming 
more  gusty,  but  not  evil.  .  .  .  Once  Morning  would 
have  called  this  a  night  of  triumph.  Every  one  looked 
at  him — talked  respectfully — whispered,  pointed.  .  .  . 
Twenty  minutes  left — the  crowd  grew  denser  in  the 


AFIELD  109 

Polander  bar.  There  was  a  voice  in  the  arch  to  the 
hotel.  Ferry  entered  in  the  midst  of  men.  He  was  talk 
ing  high,  his  eyes  dancing  madly. 

"Why,    the    son    of     ...     threw    me — that's    all. 
He's    done    with    the    Sickles.     .     .     .     Who?      Why, 
Nevin,  the  squint-eyed  son  of  a     ...     He  threw  me. 
.     I  thought  this  Morning  was  some  drunken  re 
mittance  man  wanting  passage.     Reever  Kennard  said 
he  was  a  thief.     .     .     .     Nevin  might  have  come  to  me. 
.     Why,   Morning  didn't  even  pay  his  commuta 
tion  for  rations — 

"I  would  have  mailed  it  to  you,  Ferry — except  for 
this  meeting,"  said  Morning,  his  voice  raised  a  little  to 
carry. 

An  important  moment  to  him,  and  one  of  the  strang 
est  of  his  life.  This  was  the  man  whom  he  had  dreamed 
of  murdering,  the  man  who  had  made  him  suffer  as 
only  the  gods  should  make  men  suffer.  And  yet  Ferry 
was  like  an  unpleasant  child ;  and  Morning,  troubled  by 
greater  things,  had  no  hate  now,  no  time  nor  inclina 
tion  to  hate.  The  face  that  had  seemed  dark  and  piti 
less  on  the  deck  in  Nagasaki  harbor — was  only  weak 
and  undone — an  unpleasant  child  crying,  refusing  to  be 
quieted — an  annoyance  to  the  house.  Such  was  the 
devil  of  the  Sickles,  the  man  who  had  stood  between  him 
and  America,  the  man  who  had  tried  to  make  him  miss 
beating  the  Coptic  mails.  .  .  .  They  faced  each 
other,  the  quartermaster,  wincing  and  shrunken. 

"I  had  to  get  across,  Ferry.  I  was  too  sick  to  make 
you  see.  Kennard  always  says  that.  He  seems  to  know 
that  best — but  it  isn't  true.  ...  I  was  bad  to  look 
at.  You  see,  I  had  come  a  long  way.  I  was  off  my 
head  and  eyes " 

"I  didn't  know,"  Ferry  blurted,  "and  now  Nevin  has 

thrown  me.     I  wasn't  supposed  to  take  civilians " 

"I  know  it — only  I  had  to  get  across.  ...  I 
don't  know  what  I'd  have  done  but  for  Nevin.  He  was 


no  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

mother  and  father  on  the  voyage.     I  can  give  you  the 
commutation  now " 

"You  were  a  stowaway " 

"That's  what  made  it  delicate  to  pay  for  the 
passage " 

Ferry  was  broken-nerved.  He  suggested  buying  a 
drink,  as  a  child  who  has  learned  a  fancied  trick  of 
men. 

And  Morning  drank.  Noyes  glanced  at  Field,  who 
had  suddenly  become  pale  and  anxious  with  a  story — 
idea.  He  was  at  work — drink-clouds  shoved  back  and  all 
the  exterior  enthusiasm — fresh  as  after  a  night's  rest. 
He  was  on  a  new  story. 

Ferry  went  away  and  Morning  looked  at  the  clock. 
Only  five  minutes  of  his  life  had  been  used  in  this  im 
portant  transaction.  Nevin  had  not  come — Nevin  who 
had  lost  his  berth,  thrown  over  his  own  work  for  him. 

.  .  There  would  be  no  more  Nevin  on  the  Sickles. 
Would  he  come  East? 

"Oh,  I  say,  Field — drop  the  Ferry  end  of  the  story," 
Morning  said. 

"Sure,"  said  Field  glibly. 

"Nothing  to  it,"  said  Noyes. 

Morning  was  too  tired  to  go  further,  though  he  felt 
their  lie. 

"But,  Nevin,"  he  said  to  Noyes. 

"I'll   have   him    found  to-morrow.     That's   the  big 
local  thing  to-morrow." 
"Tell  him " 

When  Morning  stopped  telling  Noyes  and  Field  what 
to  tell  Nevin  for  him,  it  was  time  to  go  for  the  ferry. 
The  Polander  slipped  out  of  Morning's  mind  like  a 
dream — smoke,  voices,  glasses,  indecent  praise.  Noyes 
reached  across  the  bar  for  a  package.  That  last  seemed 
quite  as  important  as  anything. 

They  left  him  at  the  ferry — these  men  of  the  Western 
States — servants  of  his  action  and  his  friends. 


AFIELD  in 

And  somewhere  in  the  city  was  little  Nevin,  who  had 
done  his  work  and  who  had  not  come  for  his  pay ;  some 
where  in  the  city,  but  apart  from  voices  and  adulation — 
the  man  wTho  had  forgotten  himself  in  telling  the  story 
of  how  the  news  was  brought  in.  ...  It  was  all 
desperately  unfinished.  It  hurt  him  every  moment. 

In  the  Pullman  berth  he  opened  the  package  Noyes 
had  given  him ;  the  porter  brought  a  glass.  Afterward, 
he  lay  in  the  darkness.  It  was  very  still  when  he  had 
become  accustomed  to  the  wheels.  The  going  always 
had  soothed  him.  In  the  still  train  and  the  peace  of  the 
road,  he  heard  at  last  that  ringing  again  at  the  new  door 
of  his  life,  and  opened  to  Betty  Berry,  who  had  prom 
ised  to  come. 


BOOK  II 

THE  HILL-CABIN 


BOOK  II. 

THE  HILL-CABIN 


MORNING  sat  in  the  yielding  leather  of  the  Boabdil 
library,  quite  as  if  he  had  passed  his  youth  in  the 
midst  of  people  who  talk  of  doing  things.  Liaoyang  had 
been  written,  even  the  abandoned  impediments  of  retreat 
covered.  It  had  all  come  to  pass  quite  according  to  the 
early  ideas  of  Noyes  and  Field.  John  Morning  was 
Liaoyang  in  America.  His  book  Liaoyang,  magazine 
and  newspaper  articles  gathered  together,  was  estab 
lished  as  important  authority  in  encyclopaedic  and  other 
reference  books.  The  most  captious  must  grant  that 
living  man  can  do  no  more  than  this. 

Morning  had  dined  with  the  president.  One  after 
another  he  had  made  every  magazine  of  note,  and  much 
money.  He  had  done  his  own  story  of  the  journey, 
which  proved  more  of  a  comment  maker  than  the  battle 
description ;  and  his  article  on  the  deck  passages  of  the 
Chinese  coolies  will  always  be  an  incentive  to  foreign 
missions.  New  York  had  waited  upon  him,  had  ex 
ploited  him,  given  him  bewildering  payments,  and  called 
him  everything,  even  Hugoesque  and  Tolstoianic.  It 
was  very  hard  for  Morning  to  retain  the  conviction  that 
there  wasn't  ten  pages  of  all  this  copy  that  ranked  in 
sheer  value  with  the  ten  pages  of  Fallows'  Ploughman. 
He  didn't  for  awhile. 

Liaoyang  was  on  in  full  magazine  blast  in  America, 
while  Mukden  and  Sha  River  were  being  fought  across 
the  world.  At  this  time  Morning  spent  an  hour  a  day, 


u6  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

as  war-expert  for  a  particularly  incessant  daily  news 
paper  of  New  York.  So  all  people  knew  what  the  cam 
paign  was  about,  and  what  certain  generals  might  do, 
from  past  grooves  of  their  wearing  in  history.  Also 
German  gentlemen  of  military  pasts  wrote  letters  dis 
puting  the  prophecies.  Morning  had  certainly  ar 
rived. 

The  condition  or  place  of  arrival  was  slippery.  The 
peace  of  Portsmouth  had  been  protocoled.  .  .  .  Li- 
aoyang,  deep  in  the  valley  of  desuetude,  was  without 
even  the  interest  of  perspective.  The  name,  Liaoyang, 
made  the  mind  of  the  world  lame.  .  .  .  Even  in  the 
heat  of  arrival,  the  thing  had  puzzled  him.  Money  ceased 
to  gladden  him  after  a  few  mails ;  did  not  spare  him 
from  the  nearest  irritation.  Plainly  he  was  quite  the 
same  John  Morning  after  appearing  in  the  great  mag 
azines  as  before ;  and  the  people  whom  he  had  inter 
ested  were  mainly  of  the  same  sort  that  had  come  for 
ward  in  the  Polander  bar. 

He  had  been  a  sick  man  since  the  Hun  Crossing. 
When  the  big  New  York  task  was  finished,  and  it  was 
done  with  something  of  the  same  drive  of  will  that  char 
acterized  the  second  writing  of  the  main  story  on  board 
the  Sickles,  he  was  again  ready  to  break,  body  and  brain. 
Running  down  entirely,  he  had  reached  that  condition 
which  has  an  aversion  to  any  task.  His  productive  mo 
tors  had  long  lain  in  the  dark,  covered  from  the  dust. 
This  was  the  time  he  clubbed  about.  The  Boabdil  was  a 
favorite,  but  even  here,  men  drew  up  their  chairs  from 
time  to  time,  day  and  night,  dispatching  the  waiter  for 
drink  and  saying: 

"Those  Japs  are  pretty  good  fighters,  aren't  they?" 
or,  "What  do  you  consider  will  become  of  China  in  the 

event  of "  or,  very  cheerily,  "Well,  Mr.  Morning, 

are  you  waiting  for  another  war?" 

He  slept  ill;  drank  a  very  great  deal;  the  wound  in 
his  side  had  not  healed  and  he  had  made  no  great  friends. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  117 

He  thought  of  these  four  things  on  this  particular  mid 
day  in  the  Boabdil  library.  .  .  .  Nearby  was  old 
Conrad  with  the  morning  papers,  summoning  the 
strength  to  dine.  It  was  usually  late  in  the  afternoon, 
before  he  arose  to  the  occasion,  but  with  each  stimulant, 
he  informed  the  nearest  fellow-member  that  he  was  go 
ing  to  eat  something  presently.  The  old  man  stopped 
reading  to  think  about  it.  After  much  conning,  he  de 
cided  that  he  had  better  have  just  one  more  touch  of 
this  with  a  dash  of  that — which  he  took  slowly,  listen 
ing  for  comment  from  within.  .  .  .  After  dinner 
he  would  smoke  himself  to  sleep  and  begin  preparing  for 
the  following  morning's  chops.  "Eat  twice  a  day,  sir — 
no  more — not  for  years." 

Conrad  in  his  life  had  done  one  great  thing.  In 
war-time,  before  the  high  duty  was  put  on,  he  had  ac 
cumulated  a  vast  cellar  full  of  whiskey.  That  had  meant 
his  hour.  Riches,  a  half  century  of  rich  dinners,  clean 
collars  and  deep  leather  chairs — all  from  that  whiskey 
sale.  .  .  .  "Picturesque,"  they  said  of  Conrad  at 
the  Boabdil.  "What  would  the  club  do  without 
him?"  .  .  . 

Morning  watching  him  now,  remembered  an  old  man 
who  used  to  sit  at  a  certain  table  in  a  Sixth  avenue  bar. 
The  high  price  of  whiskey  had  reversed  conditions  in 
this  case,  and  a  changed  collar  meant  funeral  or  festiv 
ity.  Forty  years  ago  this  old  man  had  bred  a  colt  that 
became  a  champion.  That  was  his  hour,  his  answer  for 
living.  After  all,  Morning  concluded,  having  seen  Con 
rad  fall  asleep  one  night,  the  old  horseman  was  less 
indecent. 

Finally  Morning  thought  of  the  little  Englishman 
at  Tongu  and  the  blanket ;  then  of  Fallows  and  Nevin — 
Fallows  saying,  "Come  on  upstairs,"  that  day  of  their 
first  meeting  at  the  Imperial,  and  Nevin  saying,  "Well, 

you  gave  me  a  night "     .     .     .     Morning  began  to 

laugh.      "Picturesque,    what-would-we-do-without    Con- 


n8  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

rad" — sitting  five  days  and  nights  on  the  deck  passage 
from  the  mouth  of  the  Pei-ho  to  the  lowest  port  of 
Japan.  .  .  . 

He  hadn't  thought  much  of  Nevin  and  Fallows  and 
the  Tongu  Endicott  in  the  months  that  followed  his 
arrival  from  San  Francisco,  when  the  work  went  with 
a  rush.  And  Betty  Berry — there  were  times  when  he 
was  half  sure  she — name,  Armory  and  all — formed  but 
an  added  dream  that  Nevin  had  injected  hypodermically 
the  night  before. 

Morning  could  think  about  all  these  now.  The  ed 
itors  had  begun  to  tell  what  they  wanted.  He  had  sent 
in  stuff  which  did  not  meet  their  needs.  He  was  linked 
to  war  in  their  minds.  Moreover,  plentiful  money  had 
brought  to  the  surface  again  his  unfinished  passion  to 
gamble,  as  his  present  distaste  for  work  had  increased 
the  consumption  of  alcohol.  ...  It  was  Reverses 
that  reminded  him  of  Fallows  and  Nevin  and  the  Tongu 
blanket  and  the  angel  he  had  entertained  in  the  Armory 
room. 

Editors  didn't  care  for  his  fiction.  "A  good  war 
story  is  all  right  any  time,"  they  said,  but  apparently 
his  were  not,  for  five  or  six  trials  didn't  take.  He  had  a 
tendency  to  remember  Fallows  when  he  wrote  fiction. 
The  story  of  the  Ploughman  came  curiously  back  to 
mind,  when  he  was  turned  loose  from  straight  narrative, 
and  he  was  "balled"  between  planes.  .  .  .  He 
thought  of  a  play.  .  .  . 

Varce  now  came  into  the  library  and  drew  up  a  chair. 
Varce  had  one  of  his  stories ;  Varce  edited  a  magazine 
that  sold  several  million  every  two  weeks.  Long  ago, 
with  great  effort,  and  by  paying  prodigiously,  Varce  had 
secured  from  Morning  one  of  the  final  tiles  of  the  great 
Liaoyang  mosaic.  .  .  .  Varce  was  tall,  a  girl's 
dream  of  poet-knight — black,  wavy  hair,  straight  ex 
cellent  features,  a  figure  lean  enough  for  modern 
clothes. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  119 

"Morning,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  the  fighting 
game?" 

"You  mean  pugilistically?" 

"Yes." 

"I  used  to  do  fights." 

Varce  went  on  presently: 

"A  great  series  of  articles  is  to  be  written  on  the 
boyhood  and  general  atmosphere  of  the  men  who  have 
made  great  ring  history — big  stuff,  you  know — well 
written — from  a  man  who  can  see  the  natural  phenomena 
of  these  bruisers — how  they  are  bred  and  all  that.  Now 
three  things  go  into  the  fighter — punch,  endurance,  but, 
most  of  all,  instinct — the  stuff  that  doesn't  let  him  'lay 
down'  when  the  going  is  rough,  and  doesn't  keep  him 
from  putting  the  wallop  on  a  groggy  opponent.  Many 
a  good  fighter  has  missed  championship  because  he  was 
too  tender-hearted  to  knock-out  a  helpless " 

"Do  you  like  that  story  of  mine  you  have,  Varce?" 
Morning  asked  yawning. 

"Oh,  it's  a  good  enough  story — a  bit  socialistic — what 
are  you  trying  to  get  at?" 

"No  need  of  me  furnishing  diagrams,  if  the  manu 
script  leaves  you  that  way,"  Morning  said.  "You  were 
just  saying  about  the  last  touch  to  a  beating — yes,  I've 
heard  about  those  three  things " 

"Do  you  want  the  series?" 

"No,  I'm  doing  a  play." 

.  .  .  After  Varce  had  gone,  Morning  thought  it  all 
out  again.  Varce  was  living  a  particularly  unmitigated 
lie.  Five  years  ago  he  had  done  some  decent  verse.  He 
had  a  touch  of  the  real  poetic  vision,  and  he  had  turned 
it  to  trade.  He  was  using  it  now  to  catch  the  crowd. 
An  especially  sensational  prostitution,  this — one  ithat 
would  make  the  devil  scratch  his  head.  .  .  .  And 
Varce  could  do  without  him.  Liaoyang  had  not  made 
the  name  of  John  Morning  imperative.  Moreover,  he 
himself  was  living  rotten.  He  wished  he  had  told  Varce 


izo  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

what  he  thought  of  him  and  his  multi-millionaire  sub 
scription.  .  .  .  He  hadn't ;  he  had  merely  spoken  of 
his  play.  The  bridges  were  not  burned  behind  him.  He 
might  be  very  glad  to  do  a  series  of  "pug"  stories  for 
Varce.  There  were  good  stories  in  these  fighters — but 
the  good  stories,  as  he  saw  them,  were  not  what  Varce 
saw  in  the  assignment. 

It  summed  up  that  he  was  just  beginning  over  again ; 
that  he  must  beat  the  game  all  over  again  in  a  different 
and  larger  dimension — or  else  quit.  .  .  .  He  or 
dered  a  drink.  .  .  .  He  could  always  see  himself. 
That  was  a  Morning  faculty,  the  literary  third  eye.  He 
saw  himself  doing  a  series  of  the  fighters — saw  it  even 
to  the  red  of  the  magazine  covers,  and  the  stuff  of  the 
announcements.  .  .  .  John  Morning,  the  man  who 
did  fifty-mile  fronts  at  Liaoyang,  putting  all  his  un 
paralleled  battle  color  in  the  action  of  a  24-foot  ring. 
Then  the  challenge  to  the  reader :  "Can  you  stand  a  de 
scriptive  force  of  this  calibre?  If  you  can,  read  the  story 
of  the  great  battle  between  Ambi  Viles  and  Two-pill 
Terry  in  next  issue."  .  .  .  He  would  have  to  tell 
seriously  before  the  battle  description,  however,  how 
Ambi  was  a  perfect  gentleman  and  the  sole  support  of 
his  mother,  an  almost  human  English  gentlewoman.  It 
is  well  to  be  orthodox. 

Somebody  spoke  of  whiskey  in  the  far  end  of  the 
library,  insisting  on  a  certain  whiskey,  and  old  Conrad 
cocked  up  his  ears  out  of  a  meaty  dream.  .  .  . 
Morning  closed  his  eyes.  He  felt  the  warmth  of  a  ship 
beneath,  the  drive  of  the  cold  rain  on  deck  and  the 
heaving  of  the  sea.  There  was  something  almost  sterile- 
clean  about  that  deck-passage,  compared  to  this.  .  .  . 
Then  he  remembered  again  the  men  he  had  known,  and 
the  woman  who  came  to  the  Armory  room — and  the 
long  breath  his  soul  took,  with  her  coming.  .  .  . 
Finally  he  saw  himself  years  hence,  as  if  he  had  quit 
the  fight  now  and  taken  New  York  and  Varce  as  they 


THE    HILL-CABIN  121 

meant  to  use  him.  .  .  .  He  was  sunk  in  leather, 
blown  up  like  an  inner  tube  and  showing  red,  stalled  in 
some  club  library,  and  forcing  the  world  to  remember 
Liaoyang,  bringing  down  the  encyclopaedia  to  show  his 
name,  when  extra  drunk.  .  .  .  No,  he  would  be 
hanging  precariously  to  some  porter  job  on  Sixth  avenue, 
trying  to  make  the  worn  and  tattered  edges  of  his  world 
believe  how  he  had  once  carried  the  news  from  Liao 
yang  to  Koupangtse.  .  .  . 

A  saddle-horse  racked  by  on  the  asphalt,  and  turned 
into  the  park.  Morning  arose.  There  was  stabbing  and 
scalding  from  the  unhealed  wound  in  his  side.  The  pain 
reminded  him  of  the  giants  he  had  once  known  and  of 
the  woman  who  came  to  the  Armory  room.  It  had  al 
ways  been  so ;  always  something  about  him  unsound, 
something  that  would  not  heal.  He  had  accepted 
eagerly,  but  ever  his  giving  had  been  paltry.  And  he 
had  to  be  pulled  down,  out  of  the  shine  of  fortune,  be 
fore  he  remembered  how  great  other  men  had  been  to 
him. 


THAT  night  he  dreamed  that  he  had  passed  through 
death.  .  .  .  He  was  standing  upon  a  cliff,  be 
tween  the  Roaming  Country  and  a  valley  of  living  earth. 
He  did  not  want  the  spirit  region ;  in  his  dream  he  turned 
his  back  upon  it.  He  did  not  want  the  stars.  Illusion 
or  not,  he  wanted  the  earth.  He  looked  down  upon  it 
through  the  summer  night,  down  through  the  tree-tops 
into  a  valley  that  lay  in  the  soft  warm  dusk.  He 
watched  with  the  passion  and  longing  of  a  newly-dead 
mother,  who  hears  her  child  crying  for  her,  and  senses 
the  desolation  of  her  mate.  .  .  .  The  breath  of  earth 
came  up  to  him  through  the  exhaling  leaves — leaves 
that  whispered  in  the  mist.  He  could  have  kissed  the 
soil  below  for  sheer  love  of  it.  He  wanted  the  cool, 
damp  earth  in  his  hands,  and  the  thick  leaf-mould  under 


122  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

his  feet,  and  the  calm  wide  listening  of  the  trees.  .  .  . 
Stars  were  near  enough,  but  earth  was  not.  He  wanted 
to  be  down,  down  in  the  drip  of  the  night.  He  would 
wait  in  ardor  for  the  rain  of  the  valley.  .  .  .  Look 
ing  down  through  the  tree-tops,  he  sensed  the  earth  pas 
sion,  the  lovely  sadness  of  it — and  desired  it,  even  if  he 
must  die  again.  .  .  .  There  was  an  ache  in  the  de 
sire — like  the  ache  of  thirst  that  puts  all  other  thoughts 
away,  and  turns  the  dream  and  the  picture  to  running 
water. 

He  awoke,  and  went  to  his  window  in  the  dark.  He 
saw  New  York  and  realized  that  he  was  dying  for  the 
country.  His  eyes  smarted  to  tears,  when  he  remem 
bered  rides  and  journeys  and  walks  he  had  taken  over 
the  earth,  so  thoughtlessly,  without  knowing  their  boon 
and  beauty  and  privilege.  .  .  .  While  he  was  stand 
ing  there,  that  which  he  had  conceived  as  To-morrow, 
became  To-day,  and  appeared  over  the  rim  of  the  oppo 
site  gorge  of  apartments.  The  first  light  of  it  sank  far 
down  into  the  tarry  stuffiness  of  the  pavement,  but  the 
dew  that  fell  with  the  dawn-light  was  pure  as  heaven 
to  his  nostrils. 

That  day  he  crossed  the  river,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
car-line  beyond  Hackensack,  walked  for  a  half-hour.  It 
was  thus  that  Morning  found  his  hill.  Just  a  lifted  cor 
ner  of  a  broad  meadow,  with  a  mixed  company  of  fine 
trees  atop.  He  bought  it  before  dusk.  The  dairyman's 
farmhouse  was  a  quarter-mile  distant;  the  road,  a  hun 
dred  and  fifty  yards  from  the  crest  of  the  hill,  with 
trees  thinly  intervening.  The  south  was  open  to  even 
wider  fields ;  in  the  far  distance  to  the  west  across  the 
meadows,  the  sky  was  sharpened  by  a  low  ribbon  of 
woods  and  hill-land.  In  the  east  was  the  suspended 
silence  of  the  Hudson. 

"I  want  a  pump  and  a  cabin,  and  possibly  a  shed  for 
a  horse,"  he  said,  drinking  a  glass  of  buttermilk,  at  the 
dairyman's  door. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  123 

He  was  directed  to  Hackensack. 

With  the  falling  darkness  again  upon  the  hills,  he 
saw  that  certain  crowded,  mid-growth  trees  were  better 
down.  The  fine  thought  of  building  his  cabin  of  them 
occurred.  By  the  time  he  reached  Hackensack,  the  house 
of  logs  was  so  dear  in  thought,  that  he  wanted  nothing 
short  of  a  cabinet-joiner  for  such  a  precious  task.  That 
night  he  met  Jake  Robin,  who  was  sick  of  nailing  at 
houses  in  rows,  a  job  that  had  long  since  ceased  to  af 
ford  deep  breaths  to  his  capacity. 

The  next  day  Morning  moved  to  Hackensack,  and 
Jake  was  at  work.  .  .  .  Three  thousand  he  had  lost 
gambling  ...  he  wished  he  had  it  now.  Much 
more  had  been  lost,  and  not  so  cleanly,  in  reaching  the 
final  Boabdil  realization,  but  he  had  enough.  Presently 
he  was  helping  Jake,  and  there  was  joy  in  it. 

They  tapped  a  spring  some  thirty  feet  beneath  the 
humped  shoulder  of  the  hill ;  built  a  shed  for  the  horse 
he  had  not  yet  found,  and  then  fitted  the  cabin  to  the 
fire-place  of  concrete  and  valley  stone.  One  sizeable 
room  it  was,  that  faced  the  open  south  from  the  brow 
of  the  hill. 

A  fine  unfolding — this  love  of  Morning's  for  wood 
itself,  and  woods.  Over  a  half-hundred  trees  were  his 
own — elm,  beech,  hickory,  oak,  ash,  and  maple — and  like 
a  fine  clean  colony  of  idealists  they  stood  meditating. 
.  .  .  One  never  knows  the  quality  of  wood  until  one 
builds  his  own  house.  Opening  the  timbers  for  the  big 
mortices — each  was  a  fresh  and  fragrant  discovery.  Jake 
and  he  lingered  long,  after  the  cabin  was  roofed,  over 
the  heavy  oak  flooring,  and  the  finishing  of  windows 
and  doors  and  frames.  They  built  some  furniture  to 
gether  of  hickory,  which  is  a  wood  a  man  should  handle 
with  reverence,  for  it  is  fine  in  its  way  as  wheat  and 
grapes  and  honey  and  wild  olives.  Hickory  answers 
graciously  to  the  work  of  the  hand,  and,  like  a  good  dog, 
flourishes  with  men.  .  .  .  They  built  a  table  and 


i24  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

bed-frame  and  a  chest  of  drawers ;  and  Morning  at  last 
went  to  Hackensack  for  pots,  kettles,  and  tea  things. 
Jake  Robin,  like  one  who  has  built  a  ship,  was  loath  to 
leave  without  trying  the  cabin.  Morning  kept  him  busy 
in  the  clearing,  long  after  he  was  in  the  mood  to  start 
work  on  the  play.  There  was  a  platform  to  build  for  the 
pump ;  also  a  certain  rustic  bench.  The  shed  needed 
tinkering;  an  extra  cabinet  for  books  was  indispensable 
— and  screens.  .  .  .  No  one  had  ever  let  Jake  play 
before  in  his  life.  .  .  .  Moreover,  he  was  paid  for 
the  extra  hour  required  to  walk  to  and  from  town.  All 
Hack  heard  about  it. 

"You'll  need  a  chicken-coop " 

"No,"  said  Morning.  The  look  on  Jake's  face  was 
like  old  Amoya's  in  Tokyo,  when  the  rickshaw-runner 
was  forbidden  to  take  him  to  the  Yoshuwara. 

"I  can  fit  you  up  a  little  ice-box  near  the  spring — so's 
you'll  pump  it  full  of  water,  and  keep  your  vittles " 

Morning  wanted  the  stillness  for  the  play,  but  he 
couldn't  refuse.  Two  days  more.  Then  Jake  scratched 
his  head. 

"You'll  be  wantin'  a  vine  on  the  cabin,"  he  ventured. 
"I  know  the  man  who  has  the  little  ivies." 

This  was  irresistible.  "Can  you  see  me  owning  a 
vine  ?"  asked  Morning.  Yet  there  was  significance  in  the 
idea  together  with  the  play. 

"And  I'll  build  a  bit  of  a  trainer  to  start  it.  By  the 
end  of  summer " 

"Bring  it  on,  Jake " 

"An'  I'll  fetch  a  couple  of  rose  vines,  and  dreen  them 
with  broken  crockery  from  the  holler " 

The  vine  prospered  and  the  play ;  and  the  roses  began 
to  feel  for  Jake's  trellis.  The  tool-box  was  still  there. 

"You'll  be  needin'  fire-wood  for  the  winter.  To  be 
sure,  you  can  buy  it,  but  what's  the  good,  with  dead  stuff 
to  be  knocked  down  and  small  trees  to  be  thinned  out, 
and  the  shed  gapin'  open  for  the  saddle-horse  you're  not 


THE    HILL-CABIN  125 

sure  of  findin'  ?  It's  wood  you  ought  to  have  in 
there " 

In  fact,  it  was  no  small  task  to  break  Jake  of  the  hill- 
habit.  Morning'  grew  accustomed  to  the  ax,  and  the 
crashing  of  branches,  many  of  which  would  have  been 
sacrificed  to  the  strong  winds  of  the  Fall.  Meanwhile, 
the  shed  had  come  into  its  own,  and  there  were  piles 
of  firewood  seasoning  in  the  sun  and  shade. 

He  was  alone  with  the  nights ;  sitting  there  in  his 
doorway  when  it  was  fine,  studying  the  far  lights  of  the 
city.  .  .  .  City  lights  meant  Varce  and  Conrad,  not 
his  great  friends.  Every  hour  that  he  looked,  he  liked 
better  the  wind  about  the  doorway  and  the  open  southern 
fields. 

One  night  he  felt  his  first  twinge  of  sorrow  for  the 
big  city.  Hatred,  it  had  been  before.  Other  men  were 
tortured  as  he  had  been,  but  somehow,  the  way  didn't 
get  into  their  dreams  and  drive  them  forth,  as  he  had 
been  driven.  They  were  really  not  to  blame  for  Boab- 
dilling;  they  sank  into  the  cushions  and  lost  the  sense  of 
reality.  And  then  the  thousands  in  the  hall-bedrooms 
and  worse,  to  whom  Boabdil  was  heaven's  farthest  pa 
vilion!  Morning  seemed  to  have  something  to  say  to 
those  thousands,  but  wasn't  ready  yet. 

He  longed  for  Fallows,  whom  he  saw  more  clearly 
every  day — especially  since  the  Ploughman  had  crept 
into  the  play.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  wait  upon  the  big 
sick  man ;  to  have  him  here,  to  prepare  food  for  him, 
and  sit  with  him  in  these  silences.  He  wanted  Endicott 
at  Tongu,  too,  and  Nevin — oh,  yes,  Nevin.  It  was  like 
a  prayer  that  he  sent  out  some  nights — for  the  unearth 
ing  of  these  giants  from  their  hiding — so  that  he  could 
listen  to  them,  and  serve  them  and  make  them  glad  for 
their  giving  to  him. 

A  deep  summer  night.  The  purple  of  the  north 
seemed  washed  and  thinned  in  ether,  (nothing  else  could 


126  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

bring  out  the  heavenly  lustre  of  it),  and  the  black,  fragile 
top-foliage  of  the  woods  leaned  against  it,  listening,  fem 
inine.  Darkness  only  on  the  ground ;  yet  he  loved  it,  the 
heart  of  the  dusk  that  throbbed  there.  He  loved  the 
earth  and  the  water  that  mingled  in  the  hollows.  He 
breathed  with  strange  delight  the  air  that  brushed  the 
grass  and  the  clover-scent  that  came  to  him  around  the 
hill.  .  .  .  And  this  was  the  momentary  passion — 
that  he  was  going  from  all  this.  He  loved  it  as  one  who 
was  passing  beyond.  It  was  like  the  dream  after  all. 
Just  as  Mother  Earth  was  unfolding,  he  was  called.  She 
was  like  a  woman  long  lived-with,  but  unknown,  until 
the  sudden  revelation  of  parting.  .  .  .  He  touched 
the  stones  with  his  hand. 

In  the  hush,  waiting  for  a  katydid  to  answer,  that 
night,  Morning  fell  asleep.  .  .  .  He  had  climbed  to 
his  cabin,  as  if  it  were  a  room  on  an  upper  floor.  Be 
fore  he  opened  the  door,  he  knew  someone  was  within. 
Before  the  light,  it  was  clear  that  someone  was  curled 
up  asleep  on  the  foot  of  his  hard  bed.  .  .  .  Yes,  it 
was  she  who  had  restored  his  soul,  that  day  at  the 
Armory — and  there  she  lay  sleeping.  .  .  .  He  did 
not  call  her,  as  he  had  called  Moto-san ;  there  was  no 
thought  to  waken  her,  for  everything  was  so  pure  and 
lovely  about  it.  He  stood  there,  and  watched  her  grate 
fully — it  seemed  a  long  time — until  the  katydid  answered. 


AFTER  Markheim  had  kept  the  play  three  months 
— it  was  now  November — Morning  crossed  to  the 
the  city  to  force  the  decision.     The  producer  was  pre 
vailed  upon  to  see  him. 

"It  will  be  read  once  more,"  said  Markheim.  "It 
will  go  or  not.  We  like  it,  but  we  are  afraid  of  it.  To 
morrow  we  will  know  or  not." 


THE    HILL-CABIN  127 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  do  not  read  plays." 

"To-morrow  ?'' 

"Yes." 

Markheim  bought  his  opinions,  and  was  attentive  to 
those  which  cost  the  most.  .  .  . 

Morning  drew  a  napkin  the  size  of  a  doll's  handker 
chief  from  a  pile.  A  plate  of  eggs  and  bacon  rung,  as 
if  hitting  a  bull's-eye  upon  the  white  marble  before  him. 
He  was  still  wondering  what  Markheim  was  afraid  of. 
He  didn't  like  the  feel  of  it.  The  Lowenkampf  of  Duke 
Fallows'  had  crept  into  the  play — Lowenkampf,  whose 
heart  was  pulled  across  the  world  by  the  mother  and 
child.  How  they  had  broken  his  concentration  on  the 
eve  of  the  great  battle. 

At  the  time,  he  had  seen  the  tragic  sentimentalist  as 
one  caught  in  a  master  weakness,  but  all  that  was  gone. 
Lo\venkampf  still  moved  white  in  his  fancy,  while  the 
other  generals,  even  Mergenthaler,  had  become  like  the 
dim  mounds  in  his  little  woodland.  .  .  .  And  what 
a  dramatic  thing,  to  have  a  woman  and  a  child  break 
ing  in  upon  the  poised  force  of  a  vast  Russian  army. 
It  was  like  Judith  going  down  into  the  valley-camp  of  the 
Assyrians  and  smiting  the  neck  of  Holofernes  with  his 
own  fauchion.  Morning's  mind  trailed  away  in  the 
fascination  of  Fallows,  and  in  the  dimension  he  had 
been  unable  to  grasp  in  those  black  hours  of  blood. 
.  .  .  So  many  things  were  different  aLer  this  sum 
mer  alone ;  yet  he  had  never  seemed  quite  rested,  neither 
in  mind  nor  body.  .  .  .  He  had  been  all  but  un- 
killable  like  the  sorrel  Eve  before  that  journey  from 
Liaoyang  to  New  York.  Now,  even  after  the  ease  and 
moral  healing  of  the  summer  alone,  his  wound  was  un- 
healed.  .  .  . 

The  telephone-miss  in  Markheim's  reception-room 
was  very  busy  when  he  called  the  next  afternoon. 
.  .  .  Something  about  her  reminded  him  of  Mio 


128  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

I 

Amigo.  She  was  a  good  deal  sharper.  Was  it  the  brass 
handle?  .  .  .  To  hear  her,  one  would  think  that  she 
had  come  in  late,  and  that  New  York  needed  scolding, 
even  spanking,  which  exigencies  of  time  and  space  de 
ferred  for  the  present.  Her  words  were  like  the  'spat, 
spat,  spat,'  of  a  spanking.  .  .  .  She  was  like  an 
angry  robin,  too,  at  one  end  of  a  worm.  She  bent  and 
pulled,  but  the  worm  had  a  strangle-hold  on  a  stone. 
It  gave,  but  would  not  break.  .  .  .  Morning  saw  the 
manuscript  at  this  point  on  her  side-table,  and  the  fun 
of  the  thing  was  done.  .  .  .  She  looked  up,  trailed 
a  soft  arpeggio  on  the  lower-right  of  her  board,  grasped 
the  manuscript  firmly,  and  shoved  it  to  him. 

"Mr.  Morning  to  see  Mr.  Markheim,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Markheim  is " 

But  the  husky  voice  of  the  producer  just  now  reached 
them  from  within. 

"Busy "  she  finished  with  a  cough.  .  .  .  New 

York  was  at  it  again.  Stuyvesant  especially  had  a  devil, 
and  Bryant  was  the  last  word. 

".  .  .  You  can't  see  Mr.  Markheim.  This  is  your 
message " 

"Oh,  it  really  isn't.  This  is  just  an  incident.  I  hesi 
tate  to  trouble  you,  but  I  must  see  Mr.  Markheim." 

The  play  was  wrapped  in  the  identical  paper  in  which 
it  had  been  brought. 

She  must  have  touched  something,  for  a  boy  came  in 
— a  younger  brother,  past  doubt — but  so  bewildered,  as 
to  have  become  habitually  staring. 

"Tell  Mr.  Markheim,  Mr.  Morning  insists  on  seeing 
him." 

The  boy  seemed  on  the  point  of  falling  to  his  knees 
to  beg  for  mercy.  Morning's  personal  distemper  sub 
sided.  Here  was  a  drama,  too — the  great  American 
stage.  .  .  .  One  word  came  out  to  him  from  Mark 
heim: 

"In-zists !" 


THE    HILL-CABIN  129 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Morning — good  afternoon." 

Markheim  had  his  hand  in  a  near  drawer,  and  was 
smiling  with  something  the  same  expression  that  old 
Conrad  used  when  listening  for  the  dinner  notice. 

"You  see  \ve  do  not  want  it — \ve  are  afraid,"  he  be 
gan,  and  becoming  suddenly  hopeful,  since  Morning 
drew  forth  no  bomb,  he  added,  "You  have  a  girl's  idea 
of  war,  Mr.  Morning — good  afternoon." 

He  liked  his  joke  on  the  name.  "We  were  in  doubt 
about  the  wrar  part — afraid — and  so  we  consulted  an 
expert — one  who  \vas  on  the  spot,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

Morning's  mind  was  searching  New  York ;  his  idea 
was  fateful. 

"We  are  not  bermidded  to  divulge  who  the  expert  is, 
but  we  did  not  spare  money " 

Morning's  eye  was  held  to  the  desk  over  the  shoulder 
of  Markheim,  to  a  large  square  envelope,  eminent  in 
blue,  upon  the  corner  of  which  was  the  name  "Reever 
Kennard." 

"I'm  sure  you  did  not.  He  was  always  a  high-priced 
man,"  he  said  idly.  .  .  .  And  so  this  was  the  long- 
delayed  answer  to  his  appearance  in  the  World-News  to 
the  extent  of  eighty  thousand  words.  He  had  heard  that 
Mr.  Reever  Kennard  was  back  on  finance  and  politics. 
.  .  .  Markheim  had  not  followed  his  mind  nor  caught 
the  sentence.  Morning  passed  out  through  the  hush. 
He  paused  at  the  door  to  give  the  office-boy  a  present — a 
goodly  present  to  be  divided  with  the  sister,  just  now 
occupied  with  a  fresh  outbreak  of  obstreperousness  on 
the  part  of  Gramercy. 

Morning  had  moments  of  something  like  the  old 
rage ;  but  the  extreme  naturalness  of  the  thing,  and  its 
touch  of  humor,  helped  him  over  for  the  next  hour  or 
so.  Apparently,  the  opportunity  had  fallen  into  the  lap 
of  Mr.  Reever  Kennard ;  come  to  him  with  homing 
familiarity.  The  war-expert  had  spoken,  not  as  one 


130  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

offering  his  values  gratuitously,  but  as  one  called  and 
richly  paid.  Morning  reflected  that  the  summer  alone 
on  his  hill  must  have  subdued  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  was  doubtful  about  the  play;  not  because  Markheim 
was  afraid ;  not  by  any  means  because  Mr.  Reever  Ken- 
nard  had  spoken,  but  because  it  had  not  come  easily,  and 
the  three  incidents  which  made  the  three  acts  did  not 
stand  up  in  his  mind  as  the  exact  trinity  for  the  integra 
tion  of  results.  But  one  cannot  finally  judge  his  own 
work.  * 

He  wandered  straight  east  from  that  particular  the 
atre  of  Markheim's  where  the  offices  were  and  passed 
Fourth  Avenue.  He  never  went  quite  that  way  again, 
but  remembered  that  there  was  an  iron  picket-fence  of 
an  old  residence  to  lean  against ;  and  at  the  corner  of  it, 
nearer  town,  the  sidewalk  sank  into  a  smoky  passage 
where  lobsters,  chops,  and  a  fowl  or  two  were  tossed  to 
gether  in  front.  It  was  all  but  dark.  He  was  averse 
to  taking  his  present  mood  across  the  river.  It  wasn't 
fair  to  the  cabin.  Mio  Amiga  recurred  queerly  and 
often  to  mind.  .  .  . 

"Look — there's  Mr.  Morning " 

"Sh-sh— oh,  Charley— sh-sh !" 

Morning  was  compelled.  Could  this  little  shrinking 
creature,  beside  whom  the  under-sized  brother  now  ap 
peared  hulking,  be  the  same  who  had  bossed  Manhattan 
to  a  peak  in  his  presence  such  a  little  while  ago?  She 
seemed  terrified,  all  pointed  for  escape,  sick  from  the 
strain  of  the  street. 

"Why,  hello!"  Morning  said. 

She  pulled  her  brother  on,  saying  with  furious  effort 
of  will,  "I'm  sure  we're  much  obliged  for  your  pres 
ent " 

"I  had  forgotten  that,"  Morning  said. 

"We're  going  to  take  in  the  show,"  the  boy  remarked, 
drawing  back.  At  large,  thus,  he  was  much  better  to 
look  upon. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  131 

"Come  on,  Charley — we  mustn't  detain " 

Morning  had  an  idea,  and  looked  at  the  sister  as  he 
said,  "Won't  you  have  supper  with  me  somewhere?  I 
have  nothing " 

Her  face  was  livid — as  if  all  the  fears  of  a  lifetime 
had  culminated  into  the  dreadful  impendings  of  this 
moment.  She  tried  to  speak.  .  .  .  Then  it  came  to 
Morning  in  a  belated  way  that  she  thought  she  was 
accosted ;  that  she  connected  his  gift  with  this  meeting. 
He  couldn't  let  her  go  now — and  yet,  it  was  hard  for 
him  to  know  what  to  say. 

"I  mean  we  three,"  he  began  hastily.  "This  play  be 
ing  refused  rather  knocked  me  out,  and  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  the  evening.  I  don't  live  in  New  York, 
you  know.  I  thought  you  and  your  brother — that  we 
might  have  supper  together " 

He  spoke  on  desperately,  trying  to  stir  to  life  the 
little  magpie  sharpness  again.  It  was  more  to  her 
brother  she  yielded.  New  York  must  have  frightened 
her  terribly.  .  .  .  Morning  managed  to  get  down 
to  the  pair  that  night.  He  was  clumsy  at  it,  however, 
for  it  was  a  new  emprise.  Mostly  John  Morning  had 
been  wrapped  and  sealed  in  his  own  ideas.  The  boy 
was  won  with  the  first  tales  of  war,  but  the  sister  re 
mained  apart  with  her  terrors.  No  one  had  taught  her 
that  kindness  may  be  a  motive  in  itself. 

And  now  Morning  was  coping  with  what  seemed  a 
real  idea :  What  was  the  quality  of  the  switch-board  that 
harnessed  her  character?  Here  she  was  wild  and  dis 
ordered — like  a  creature  denied  her  drug.  With  that 
mystic  rumble  of  angry  New  York  in  her  ears — the 
essential  buzz  of  a  million  desires  passing  through  her — 
she  was  a  force,  a  flying  and  valuable  force.  Was  she 
lain  open  to  obsession  now  because  she  was  removed 
from  that  slavery?  Was  that  maddening  vibration  the 
lost  key  to  her  poise? 

He  tried  hard,  not  daring  to  be  attentive  in  the  least. 


132  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

She  would  have  fled,  if  he  had.  He  was  boyishly  kind 
to  her  brother.  That  awed,  and  was  beginning  to  hold 
her. 

Morning  saw  clearly  that  she  stood  like  a  stretched 
wing  between  her  brother's  little  soul  and  the  world. 
She  could  be  brave  in  sheltering  Charley.  The  boy  was 
really  alive.  He  ate  and  answered  and  listened  and  lived, 
the  show  ahead.  ...  In  the  midst  of  it,  Morning 
awoke  to  the  fact  that  he  was  having  a  good  time;  and 
here  was  the  mystery — with  the  last  two  people  in  New 
York  he  would  have  chosen ;  a  two,  his  whole  life-busi 
ness  had  taught  him  to  employ  thoughtlessly,  as  other 
metropolitan  adjuncts — pavements,  elevators,  messen 
gers.  Here  \vas  life  in  all  its  terror  and  complication, 
the  same  struggles  he  had  known ;  yet  he  had  always 
seen  himself  as  a  sort  of  Titan  alone  in  the  great  de 
stroying  elements.  The  joke  was  on  him. 

Charley   left   them    for  just   a  moment.      The   sister 
said,  as  if  thinking  aloud : 

".  .  .  And  yet,  he  cries  every  morning  because 
he  has  to  go  to  the  office.  Oh,  he  wouldn't  go  there 
without  me " 

A  world  of  meaning  in  that.  They  were  sitting  in 
the  dark  of  the  Charity  Union  play-house,  with  Charley 
between  them.  The  aims  and  auspices  of  the  perform 
ance  were  still  indefinite  to  Morning,  who  had  not  ceased 
to  grapple  with  his  joke — the  seriousness  with  which  he 
had  habitually  regarded  John  Morning,  his  house,  his 
play,  his  unhealed  wound,  his  moral  debility.  .  .  . 

For  fifteen  minutes  a  giant  had  marvelously  man 
handled  his  companion.  The  curtain  dropped  an  instant, 
and  in  the  place  where  the  giant  had  performed  now 
stood  a  'cello  and  a  chair.  .  .  .  She  came  on  like 
the  wraith  of  an  angel — and  sat  down  and  played. 
.  .  .  How  long  she  played  Morning  never  knew,  but 
somewhere  in  it  he  caught  his  breath  as  one  who  had 
come  back  to  life.  .  .  .  And  then  she  was  gone. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  133 

The  audience  was  mildly  applauding.  He  turned  to  the 
sister  leaning  on  the  knees  of  the  boy: 

"I  know  her.  She  is  very  dear  to  me.  If  you  don't 
mind,  I'll  leave  you  now.  You  are  safe  with  Charley — 
and  some  time  again  I'll  come.  I  thank  you  very  much. 
I  really  want  to  do  this  again — we  three : 

Even  though  his  own  joy  was  bewildering,  he  saw  the 
sudden  happiness  of  Charley's  sister,  who,  in  spite  of 
all,  had  been  haunted  by  the  dread  of  the  afterward. 
Now  that  was  gone  from  her.  Relief  was  in  her  face. 
It  was  all  so  much  better  than  she  had  dared  to  hope. 
He  had  wanted  nothing — except  to  be  kind — and  now 
he  was  going.  She  gave  her  hand  impulsively. 
.  .  .  Charley  did,  too,  and  was  ordered  to  call  a  car 
riage  for  his  sister  if  he  wished ;  at  all  events,  the  means 
was  attended.  .  .  .  Then  they  saw  him  making  his 
way  forward — putting  money  into  the  hands  of  ushers, 
and  inquiring  the  way  to  the  stage.  .  .  .  And  she 
was  there,  playing  again. 


SHE  was  making  the  people  like  her.  Her  effect  was 
gradual.  They  had  been  held  by  more  obvious  dis 
plays.  The  instrument  seemed  very  big  for  her,  but  the 
people  liked  her  all  the  better  for  this.  .  .  .  He 
could  not  be  one  with  the  audience,  but  the  old  watching 
literary  eye — the  third  eye — caught  the  sense  of  the  peo 
ple's  growing  delight.  She  made  them  feel  that  she  be 
longed  to  them ;  as  if  she  said : 

"I  have  come  back  to  you.  I  will  do  just  what  you 
ask.  Everything  I  have  is  yours ' 

It  was  different  and  dearer  to  John  Morning  than 
anything  he  had  ever  known.  The  picture  came  clearly 
to  him  as  he  walked  around  behind.  .  .  .  This  was 
the  hour  of  her  return.  She  had  gone  from  the  hearts 


i34  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

of  her  people  long  ago  to  bring  back  music.  It  was  the 
beautiful  old  story  of  their  sacrifice  to  send  her  away. 
How  splendidly  she  had  learned;  how  thrillingly  they 
remembered  her  beginnings.  And  she  had  never  for 
gotten;  she  would  always  love  and  thank  them — indeed, 
she  was  happier  than  any  now.  .  .  .  Morning  was 
lost  for  a  moment  in  his  story. 

She  was  approaching,  but  did  not  see  him  yet.  The 
house  was  pleased  with  her,  not  noisily,  but  pleasantly. 
She  turned  to  bow  to  the  people — and  then  back  toward 
the  wings.  She  saw  him  standing  there.  Her  arms  went 
out  to  him,  though  she  had  not  quitted  the  stage.  .  .  . 
The  gesture  was  new  to  the  people.  ...  It  was 
different  from  her  coming  to  him  at  the  Armory.  .  .  . 
They  were  standing  together. 

"Why  don't  you  go  on  again?"  a  voice  said,  and  with 
a  queer  irritation  in  the  tone. 

.  .  .  She  was  playing  again — and  with  dash  and 
power. 

Morning  had  to  shut  his  eyes  now,  really  to  hear ;  and 
yet,  he  could  not  summon  her  face  to  mind  when  his 
eyes  were  shut.  He  thought  with  a  quick  burn  of  shame 
that  he  had  once  wished  her  prettier.  Sadness  followed, 
for,  it  seemed  to  him,  their  meeting  had  been  broken. 
She  belonged  to  the  people  and  not  to  him.  They  loved 
her.  .  .  .  She  was  different.  He  saw  it  now.  The 
audience,  so  pleased  and  joyous,  lifted  her  in  a  way  per 
haps  that  he  could  never  do. 

It  was  everywhere — the  music.  It  filled  the  high, 
brick-walled  stage,  vibrated  in  the  spiral  stairways, 
moved  mysteriously  in  the  upper  darkness  and  immen 
sity.  Behind  the  far  wings  a  man  was  moving  up  and 
down  in  a  sort  of  enchantment — no,  he  was  memorizing 
something.  A  few  of  the  far  front  rows  were  visible 
from  where  Morning  stood,  and  the  forward  boxes 
opposite.  .  .  . 

Morning  was  wandering  in  a  weird  land,  a  hollow 


THE    HILL-CABIN  135 

land.  The  woman's  playing  was  between  him  and  the 
world  of  men ;  half  for  them,  half  for  him.  The  Mem- 
orizer  was  but  another  phantom,  wandering  with  the 
ghost  of  a  manuscript.  Between  Morning  and  the  player 
was  only  the  frail,  fluent  current  of  music.  This  was  a 
suspense  of  centuries.  .  .  .  Would  she  go  to  Them, 
or  return  to  Him?  The  tall,  dim  canvases  were  fields 
of  emptiness  and  silence,  in  which  he  wandered  listen 
ing,  tortured  with  tension ;  and  the  loft  was  sunless, 
moonless,  unearthly.  .  .  . 

The  music  ceased.  He  heard  the  calling  of  the  other 
world  to  her.  He  was  apart  in  the  shadows.  Would 
she  go  to  them,  or  would  she  remember  him,  waiting? 
.  .  .  She  was  coming.  He  heard  her  step  behind  the 
wings.  It  was  light  as  a  gloved  hand  upon  a  table.  He 
was  hungry  and  athirst  and  breathless.  For  the  first 
time  he  saw  that  her  throat  and  arms  were  bare.  .  .  . 
They  were  standing  together  again,  but  the  Other  Phan 
tom  intercepted. 

It  was  the  Memorizing  Man.  He  came  forward  in 
an  agony  of  excitement.  "You'll  have  to  prompt  me," 
he  said  to  Betty  Berry,  speaking  roughly  in  his  tension. 
"It's  my  first  time  with  this  new  dope.  I  thought  I  had 
it,  but  I  ain't — and  there's  a  barrel  of  it." 

The  stage  was  slightly  changed.  Morning  was  think 
ing  how  hideous  the  work  of  some  men.  The  Phantom 
was  scourged  with  the  fear  of  one  who  was  to  do  imper 
fectly  what  another  had  written.  The  woman  had  car 
ried  a  small  table  and  chair  to  the  wings,  out  of  view 
of  the  audience  and  as  near  as  possible  to  the  Mem- 
orizer.  .  .  .  Morning  found  something  soft  and 
fragrant  in  his  hands.  Betty  Berry's  wrap,  which  she 
had  given  to  him  before  going  to  the  table.  And  now 
the  monologue  had  begun.  ...  It  was  to  be  hu 
morous. 

Betty  Berry,  standing  beside  the  table,  raised  her 
eyes  from  the  paper,  and  beckoned  to  Morning.  His 


136  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

first  thought  was  that  he  might  disturb  her  prompting, 
and  he  hesitated.  She  looked  up  again.  Then  he  thought 
she  might  want  her  wrap.  He  tiptoed  forward  and  put 
it  around  her  shoulders. 

"It  wasn't  that,"  she  whispered,  her  eyes  upon  the 
paper.  "I  wanted  you  to  keep  me  company.  This  is 
long.  Sit  down." 

"Won't  you — sit  down?"  he  said  from  behind,  very- 
close  to  her  hair. 

She  shook  her  head.  ...  It  was  peculiar — she 
standing,  and  he  in  the  chair.  The  soft  wrap  winged 
out,  and  her  arm  beneath  slid  across  his  shoulder;  the 
hollow  of  her  left  arm  against  his  cheek.  He  kissed  it, 
and  his  face  burned  against  its  coolness. 

She  shivered  slightly,  but  did  not  take  her  arm  away. 
Now  he  looked  up  into  her  face — her  eyelids  drawn,  her 
lips  compressed,  her  gaze  steadily  held  to  the  manuscript. 
The  Phantom  was  carried  on  by  the  alien  humor. 
Laughter  was  beginning  to  crackle  here  and  there 
through  the  house.  Betty  Berry  followed  with  her  eyes 
— just  the  words. 

"I  was  so  glad  to  find  you,"  Morning  whispered. 

Her  lips  moved. 

Matters  tumbled  over  each  other  in  his  mind  to  say 
to  her;  he  was  thinking  sentences  rather  than  words. 
He  knew  that  it  was  not  well  to  talk  now,  but  there 
seemed  so  much  to  say,  and  so  little  time.  He  caught 
himself  promising  to  give  her  understanding,  and  he 
told  her  that  she  seemed  everything  he  wanted  to  know. 
His  cheek  was  burning  as  never  before.  .  .  . 

The  remotest  happened.  The  Phantom  faltered  in 
a  climax,  and  covered  the  difficulty  with  a  trick — await 
ing  the  line  from  the  wings.  Betty  Berry  had  become 
rigid.  Her  eyes  would  not  see  the  page. 

Morning  spoke  a  sentence  in  a  low,  carrying  way. 
He  had  plucked  it  from  the  page  painfully  near  his  own 
eyes.  It  may  be  that  the  Memorizer  righted  himself,  or 


THE    HILL-CABIN  137 

that  the  prompted  line  was  what  he  needed.    Anyway, 
he  was  going  again,  and  rising  to  the  end.     .     .     . 

The  two  stood  together  while  the  house  laughed,  re 
calling  the  performer. 

"Thanks.  I  caught  it  fine,"  the  Phantom  said  hastily. 
"Not  even  the  front  rows  knew.  I  was  listening  for 
Miss  Berry — and  your  cue  came " 

"It  went  all  right,"  said  Morning. 

The  other  took  the  manuscript  and  passed  on,  roll 
ing  a  cigarette.  .  .  .  For  just  a  moment,  the  two 
were  alone.  Into  each  other's  arms  they  went,  with  the 
superb  thoughtlessness  of  children  .  .  .  and  then 
they  heard  steps  and  voices.  .  .  .  He  wondered 
that  Betty  Berry  could  laugh  and  reply  to  those  who 
spoke  to  her.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  escape  with  her. 
Never  had  he  wanted  anything  so  much.  He  was  ex 
hausted,  humbled,  inspired.  To  be  out  in  the  street  with 
her — it  seemed  almost  too  good  to  be.  ...  She  was 
saying  good-night  and  good-bye.  He  followed,  carrying 
the  'cello. 


MORNING  remembered  that  he  had  thought  of  her 
once  before  as  having  braids  down  behind — as  if 
they  were  boy  and  girl  together,  and  now  it  seemed  as 
if  they  were  wandering  through  some  Holland  street. 
He  had  never  been  in  a  Holland  street,  but  the  sense  of 
it  came  to  him — as  he  walked  with  her,  carrying  her 
instrument.  His  primary  instinct  was  to  turn  away 
from  the  noise  of  the  cars,  and  where  the  lights  were 
less  glaring.  Moreover,  now  that  they  were  alone,  the 
impulse  to  say  many  things  had  left  him. 

"We  must  hurry  to  the  ferry — there  is  only  a  few 
minutes 

He  had  known  somehow  that  she  was  going  away 


138  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

— perhaps  from  something  she  had  said  to  the  others  at 
the  theatre. 

"You're  not  going  way  back  to — to  the  Armory?" 

"No,  to  Europe  just  for  a  few  weeks.  I  sail  to 
morrow  morning  from  Baltimore.  All  we  have  to  do  is 
to  catch  the  ferry  and  train.  I  have  sleeper-tickets — 
and  berth  and  all " 

"I'll — I'll  go  across  on  the  ferry  with  you,"  he  said 
huskily. 

She  felt  his  suffering  by  her  own,  and  said: 

"My  old  master  is  there.  I  am  to  meet  him — I  think 
in  Paris — I  shall  know  when  I  reach  London.  There  is 
to  be  just  a  few  private  concerts  and  some  lessons  fur 
ther  from  him.  For  two  years  we've  planned  to  do  this. 
I  go  to  Baltimore,  because  it  is  cheaper  to  sail  from 
there— 

"And  you'll  be  back — when?" 

"By  the  first  of  March — just  a  few  days  over  three 
months " 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  asked :  "Do  you 
think  this  is  just  like  a  chance  meeting  to  me — as  one 
meets  an  old  friend  in  New  York?" 

"No." 

"I  was  in  a  whirl  when  I  saw  you,"  he  said  desper 
ately.  "It  was  such  a  pretty  thing,  too — the  way  I  hap 
pened  to  come  to  the  theatre  .  .  .  and  now  you're 
going  away- 


'Yes — yes — but  it's  only  a  little  while " 

"Did  you  know  I  was  here  in  New  York?" 
"I  knew  you  had  been.     I  saw  your  work- 


"But  anywhere  my  work  appears — a  letter  sent  in 

care  of  the  paper  or  magazine  would  find  me " 

"We — I  mean  women — do  not  write  that  way " 

"I  know — I  know.     .     .     .     But  /  didn't  have  any 
thing  but  the  name,  'Betty  Berry' " 

"It  seemed  that  night  after  I  left  you  at  the  Armory 


THE    HILL-CABIN  139 

everyone  was  talking  about  John  Morning.  And  to 
think  I  supposed  you  just  a  soldier.  Everywhere,  it  was 
what  John  Morning  had  done,  and  what  he  had  endured 
— and  I  had  spent  the  afternoon  with  you.  I  started  to 
read  that  story  about  your  journey,  but  I  couldn't  go  on. 
It  seemed  that  I  would  die  before  I  was  half  through 
your  sufferings.  ...  I  would  try  to  think  of  the 
things  we  said,  but  they  didn't  come  back.  I  couldn't 
rest.  I  was  glad  you  asked  me  to  come  again.  I  could 
hardly  wait  for  the  morning — to  go  back  to  the 
Armory " 

He  had  no  answer.    They  were  in  a  cross-town  car. 

"But  I  think  I  understand.  We  won't  say  anything 
of  that  again.  .  .  ." 

"You  went  back  to  the  Armory  that  next  morn 
ing?" 

"Yes " 

"Oh,  but  I  wasn't  ready,"  he  said  at  last,  as  if  goaded 
by  pain.  "I  had  so  much  to  learn.  Why,  I  had  to  learn 
this — how  little  this  means " 

He  pointed  out  of  the  windows  to  the  city  streets. 

"You  mean  New  York?" 

"Yes " 

"It  really  seems  as  if  men  must  learn  that,  first  of  all. 
You  have  done  well  to  learn  so  soon." 

"It's  so  different  now.  I  must  have  been  half-uncon 
scious  that  day  when  you  came.  You  were  like  an  angel. 
I  didn't  know  until  afterward  what  it  really  meant  to 
me.  .  .  .  You  remember  the  men  who  came — news 
paper  men?  They  showed  me  what  I  could  do  in  New 
York — how  I  could  make  the  magazines  and  the  big 
markets.  I  was  knocked-out.  You  must  see  it — all  I 
wanted  to  do  in  coming  years — to  make  what  seemed 
the  real  literary  markets — all  was  to  be  done  in  a  few 
weeks.  ...  It  was  not  until  I  was  on  the  train  that 
night  that  I  remembered  you  were  a  living  woman,  and 
had  come  to  me.  Then  I  didn't  know  what  to 


1 40  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

do.  ...  But  ever  since  I  have  thought  of  that  aft 
ernoon,  every  day.  .  .  ." 

They  boarded  the  ferry  and  moved  away  from  the 
rest  of  the  people. 

"I  hate  to  have  you  go,"  he  said.  The  words  were 
wrung  from  him.  They  were  such  poor  and  common 
words,  but  his  every  process  of  thought  repeated  them. 
He  looked  back  the  years,  and  found  a  single  afternoon 
in  the  midst  of  passionate  waste — the  single  afternoon 
in  which  she  came.  .  .  .  She  was  everything  to  him. 
He  wanted  to  go  on  and  on  this  way,  carrying  her  'cello. 
He  could  ask  no  more  than  to  have  her  beside  him.  He 
had  learned  the  rest — it  was  trash  and  suffering.  He 
wanted  to  tell  her  all  he  knew — not  in  the  tension  of  this 
momentary  parting — but  during  days  and  years,  to  tell 
his  story  and  have  her  sanction  upon  what  was  done,  and 
to  be  done.  She  was  dear ;  peace  was  with  her.  .  .  . 
She  would  tell  him  all  that  was  mysterious ;  together 
they  would  be  One  Who  Knew.  Together  they  would 
work — do  the  things  that  counted,  and  learn  faith.  .  .  . 

She  took  the  'cello  from  him,  so  that  he  could  carry 
to  the  Pullman  her  large  case  checked  in  the  Jersey  sta 
tion.  ...  It  was  very  quiet  and  dark  in  the  coach. 
All  the  berths  were  made  up  but  one,  in  which  they  sat 
down.  .  .  .  They  were  alone.  It  was  perfect. 

"I  can't  go  back  now.  I'll  go  on  with  you  to  Tren 
ton.  ...  I  have  thought  so  much  of  meeting  you. 
.  .  .  When  the  men  came  that  day  to  the  Armory 
they  showed  me  everything  that  seemed  good  then — 
fame  and  money  waiting  in  New  York.  It  seemed  that 
it  couldn't  wait  another  day — that  I  must  go  that  night. 
.  .  .  When  the  train  started  (it  was  like  this  in  Oak 
land)  I  thought  of  you — of  you,  back  in  'Frisco  and 
coming  to  the  Armory  in  the  morning.  It  broke  me. 
But  I  wasn't  right — not  normal.  I  had  worked  like  a 
madman — wounds  and  all.  I  worked  like  a  madman  in 
New  York " 


THE    HILL-CABIN  141 

She  put  her  hand  on  his.  Her  listening  centered  him. 
That  was  it — as  if  he  had  not  been  whirling  true  before. 
.  .  .  Her  hand,  her  listening,  and  he  was  himself — 
eager  to  give  her  all  that  was  real. 

"It's  so  good  to  have  you  here,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
satisfied  way.  "Will  you  be  able  to  get  a  train  back  all 
right?" 

"Yes."     Now  he  thought  of  Charley  and  his  sister. 

"It  was  such  a  good  little  thing  that  brought  me  to 
you,"  he  said.  "One  of  the  little  things  that  I  never 
thought  of  before,"  he  told  her  hurriedly. 

"They  are  very  wonderful — those  little  things,  as 
you  call  them.  ...  A  person  is  so  safe  in  doing 
them " 

"I  must  tell  Duke  Fallows  about  that,"  he  added. 
"About  that  word  'safe,'  as  you  just  said  it.  ... 
Did  you  read  his  story?" 

"About  the  Ploughman?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  it  was  wonderful!"  Betty  Berry  said.  "He 
made  me  see  it.  It  was  almost  worth  a  war  to  make 
people  see  that " 

She  stopped  strangely.  He  was  bending  close, 
watching  her. 

"Do  you  know  you  are  a  love-woman?" 

"You  mean  something  different?"  she  asked  queerly. 

"I  mean  you  are  everything — don't  you  see?  You 
know  everything  at  once  that  I  have  to  get  bruised  and 
tortured  to  know.  And  when  you  are  here,  I  know 
where  I  am.  It's  different  from  any  kind  of  resting  to 
be  here  with  you.  It's  kind  of  being  made  over.  And 
then  you  are  so — tender 

"You  make  the  tears  come,  John  Morning." 

Now,  it  was  very  dark  where  they  were;  the  real 
silences  began.  He  knew  the  most  wonderful  thing 
about  her  —  her  listening.  .  .  .  Sometimes,  she 
seemed  hardly  there.  Sometimes  the  love  for  her  and 


1 42  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

the  sweet  quality  of  it  all — shut  his  throat,  and  he  stared 
away  in  the  dark.  It  came  to  him  that  Betty  Berry — 
left  to  herself — would  be  infallible.  She  might  do 
wrong,  through  the  will  of  someone  else,  but  her  own 
impulses  were  unerringly  right.  There  was  delicacy, 
perhaps,  from  the  long  summer  alone,  in  this  sense  that 
he  must  not  impose  his  will.  She  would  be  unable  to 
refuse  anything  possible.  If  ever  Betty  Berry  were 
forced  to  refuse  anything  he  asked,  they  would  never  be 
the  same  together.  And  so  he  studied  her.  Her  nature 
was  like  something  that  enfolded.  It  was  like  an  at 
mosphere — his  own  element. 

"Betty " 

"Yes." 


"Betty- 
"Yes— 


And  then  she  laughed  and  kissed  him.  He  was  say 
ing  her  name  in  the  very  hush  of  contemplation ;  so  real 
that  the  name  was  all. 


THE  Pullman  conductor  passing  through  after 
Trenton  gave  Morning  further  passage,  and 
moved  on  with  a  smile.  A  wonderful  old  darkey  was  the 
porter,  very  huge,  past  seventy,  with  a  voice  purringly 
kind,  and  the  genial  deference  of  the  Old  South.  Morn 
ing  was  thinking  there  couldn't  be  better  hands  in  which 
to  leave  the  Betty  Berry.  .  .  .  Fifteen  minutes  at 
Philadelphia;  they  hurried  out  for  a  cup  of  coffee.  As 
one  of  the  big  station  clocks  marked  the  minutes,  Morn 
ing  felt  havoc  with  a  new  and  different  force. 

"I  can't  go  back  now,"  he  said. 

"You  look  so  tired — the  long  night  journey  back " 

she  faltered. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  me  go  farther — to  Wil 
mington — to  Baltimore  ?" 


THE    HILL-CABIN  143 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  you  won't  mind  staying  up?" 

Betty  Berry  covered  her  eyes.  ...  "I  never 
rested  in  quite  the  same  way  as  to-night,"  she  said.  "It 
has  been  happy — so  happy,  unexpected.  I  shall  have 
nine  days  at  sea  to  think  of  it — to  play  and  think  of  it, 
moment  by  moment." 

"I'll  go  with  you  clear  through  to  the  ship  then." 

The  clock  ceased  its  torment. 

"Have  you  plenty  of  money  to  get  back — and  all?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  sure — because  I  could  loan  you  some?" 

He  told  her  again,  but  the  thought  held  a  comrade 
ship  that  gripped  him.  It  happened  that  he  was  plen 
tifully  supplied ;  though  he  would  have  walked  back 
rather  than  confess  otherwise — a  peculiar  stupidity.  The 
beaming  of  the  old  porter  made  the  moment  at  the  steps 
of  the  coach  so  fine,  Morning  found  himself  explaining : 

"The  lady  is  sailing  from  Baltimore  in  the  morning. 
I've  decided  to  go  clear  through  to  the  pier." 

This  was  an  extraordinary  thing  for  him  to  explain. 

They  sat  in  silence  until  the  train  moved,  and  they 
could  forget  the  snoring.  .  .  .  The  coach  grew 
colder,  and  Betty  unpacked  a  steamer  rug  which  they 
used  for  a  lap-robe.  Even  the  old  darkey  went  to  sleep 
after  Wilmington. 

"Letters — "  she  said  at  last.  "I  have  been  thinking 
about  that.  .  .  .  There's  no  way  to  tell  where  I  am 
to  be.  I  won't  know  until  London,  where  I  am  to  meet 
my  old  master.  Perhaps  then  I  could  tell  you — but  I 
daren't  think  of  letters  and  risk  disappointment.  .  .  . 
You  must  wait  until  I  write  you 

Morning  began  to  count  the  days,  and  she  knew  what 
was  in  his  mind. 

"That's  just  it — one  gets  to  lean  on  letters.  One's 
letters  are  never  one's  self.  I  know  that  extended  writ 
ing  throws  one  out  from  the  true  idea  of  another.  I 


144  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

shall  think  of  to-night  during  the  weeks.  ...  It 
seems,  we  forgot  the  world  to-night.  There — behind 
the  scenes — how  wonderful.  .  .  .  There  was  no 
thought  about  it.  I  just  found  myself  in  your  arms — 

"Then  I  am  not  to  write — until  I  hear  from  you?" 
he  asked.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  before  that  she 
could  have  any  deeper  reason  than  an  uncertain  itin 
erary. 

"That  will  be  best.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see,  writing  is 
your  work.  It  will  make  you  turn  your  training  upon 
me.  Something  tells  me  the  peril  of  that.  As  to-night 
dimmed  away — you  would  force  the  picture.  .  .  . 
Trained  as  you,  one  writes  to  what  he  wishes  one 
to  be,  not  to  what  one  is.  ...  You  would  make  me 
all  over  to  suit — and  when  I  came,  there  would  be  a 
shock.  .  .  .  And  then  think  if  some  night — very 
eager  and  heart-thumping,  I  should  reach  a  city — so 
lonely  and  hungry  for  my  letter — and  it  shouldn't  be 
there.  .  .  .  No,  to-night  must  do  for  me.  I  shall 
go  on  my  way  playing  and  biding  my  time,  until  the 
return  steamer.  Then  some  morning,  about  the  first  of 
March,  you  shall  hear  that  I  am  back — and  that  I  am 
waiting  for  my  real  letter " 

"And  where  did  you  learn  all  this — about  a  man 
writing  himself  out  of  the  real?"  John  Morning  asked 
wonderingly. 

"If  I  were  to  be  in  one  place  to  receive  your  letters, 
I  might  not  have  thought  of  it — yet  it  is  true.  .  .  . 
Then,  my  letters  are  nothing.  Perhaps  I  am  a  little 
afraid  to  write  to  you.  I  think  with  the  'cello " 

"All  that  seems  very  old  and  wise,  beyond  my  kind 
of  thinking,"  he  said. 

For  a  long  time  she  was  listening.  It  was  like  that 
first  afternoon.  .  .  .  What  did  Betty  Berry  hear 
continually?  It  gave  him  a  conception  of  what  recep 
tivity  meant — that  quiescence  of  all  that  is  common,  that 
abatement  of  the  world  and  the  worldly  self,  that  quality 


THE    HILL-CABIN  145 

purely  feminine.  It  was  like  a  valley  receiving  the  aft 
ernoon  sunlight.  He  realized  vaguely  at  first  that  the 
mastery  of  self,  necessary  for  such  listening,  is  the  very 
state  of  being  saints  pray  for,  and  practice  continually 
to  attain.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  he  thought,  this  is  the  way 
great  powers  come — from  such  listening — the  listening 
of  the  soul ;  perhaps  such  power  would  come  again  and 
again,  if  only  the  strength  of  it  were  turned  into  service 
for  men ;  perhaps  it  was  a  kind  of  prayer.  ...  It 
was  all  too  vague  for  him  to  speak.  .  .  . 

She  was  first  to  whisper  that  the  dawn  had  come. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said. 

He  saw  her  eyes  with  the  daylight,  as  he  had  not 
seen  them  since  that  first  afternoon — gray  eyes,  very 
deep.  The  same  strange  hush  came  to  him  from  them. 
And  there  was  a  soft  gray  lustre  with  the  morning  about 
her  traveling-coat ;  and  her  brown  hair  seemed  half- 
transparent  against  the  panes.  No  one  was  yet  abroad 
in  the  coach. 

"I  don't  seem  to  belong  at  all — except  that  I  love 
you,"  he  whispered. 

"Tell  me — what  that  means — oh,  please " 

"When  I  think  of  what  I  am,  and  who  I  am,  and 
what  I  have  been — and  what  common  things  I  have  done 
in  the  stupidity  of  thinking  they  were  good,"  he  ex 
plained  with  a  rush  of  words ;  "when  I  think  of  the 
dozen  turnings  in  my  life,  when  little  things  said  or  done 
by  another  have  kept  me  from  greater  shame  and  noth 
ingness — oh,  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  I  belong  at  all 
to  such  a  night  as  this !  But  when  I  feel  myself  here, 
and  see  you,  and  how  dear  you  are  to  me,  how  you  wait 
for  my  words,  and  what  happiness  this  is  together — then 
it  comes  to  me  that  I  don't  belong  to  those  other  things, 
but  only  to  this — that  I  could  never  be  a  part  of  those 
old  thoughts  and  ways,  if  you  were  always  near " 

"And  I  have  waited  a  long  time.  .  .  .  The  world 
has  said  again  and  again,  'He  will  never  come,'  but 


i46  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

something  deeper  of  me — something  deeper  than  plays 
the  'cello,  kept  waiting  on  and  on.  That  deeper  me 
seemed  to  know  all  the  time." 

Talking  and  listening  carried  them  on.  John  Morn 
ing  had  the  different  phases  of  self  segregated  in  an 
astonishing  way.  He  spoke  of  himself  as  man  can  only 
with  a  woman — making-  pictures  of  certain  moments,  as  a 
writer  does.  Volumes  of  emotion,  they  burned,  talking 
and  listening,  leaning  upon  each  other's  words  and 
thoughts.  They  were  one,  in  a  very  deep  sense  of  joy 
and  replenishment.  They  touched  for  moments  the 
plane  of  unity  in  which  they  looked  with  calm  upon  the 
parting,  but  the  woman  alone  poised  herself  there.  They 
left  the  old  darkey — a  blessing  in  his  voice  and  smile. 
Such  passages  of  the  days'  journeys  were  always  impor 
tant  to  Betty  Berry. 

Morning  fell  often  from  the  heights  to  contemplate 
the  journey's  end  and  the  dividing  sea.  In  spite  of  his 
words,  in  spite  of  his  belief — his  giving  was  not  of  her 
quality  of  giving.  His  replenishment  was  less  therefore. 
.  .  .  They  moved  about  the  streets  of  Baltimore  in 
early  morning.  The  baggage  went  on  to  the  ship.  An 
hour  remained.  Sounds  and  passing  people  distracted 
him.  The  woman  was  fresher  than  when  he  had  seen 
her  last  night,  but  Morning  was  haggard  and  full  of 
needs.  .  .  .  She  was  a  continual  miracle,  unlike 
anything  that  the  world  held — different  in  every  word 
and  nestling  and  intonation.  Much  of  her  was  the 
child — yet  from  this  naive  sweetness,  her  mood  would 
change  to  a  womanhood  which  enfolded  and  completed 
him,  so  that  they  were  as  a  globe  together.  In  such  in 
stants  she  brought  vision  to  his  substance;  mind  to  his 
brain,  intuition  to  his  logic,  divination  to  his  reason, 
affinity  to  each  element — enveloping  him  as  water  an 
island.  The  touch  of  her  hand  was  a  kiss ;  and  of  her 
kiss  itself,  passion  was  but  the  atmosphere;  there  was 
earth  below  and  sky  above.  .  .  .  She  took  him  to 


THE    HILL-CABIN  147 

the  state-room  where  she  was  to  be,  "so  you  will  know 
where  I  am  when  you  think  of  me."  .  .  .  They 
heard  the  knock  of  heels  on  the  deck  above.  .  .  . 

He  could  not  think.  He  heard  them  calling  for  visi 
tors  to  go  ashore.  .  .  .  He  thought  once  it  was  too 
late,  and  when  he  was  really  below  on  the  wharf  and  she 
above,  and  he  realized  that  the  wild  hope  of  being  taken 
away  with  her,  (his  own  will  not  entering,  as  the  ser 
pent  entered  Eden,)  he  could  hardly  see  her  for  the 
blur — not  of  tears,  but  of  his  natural  rending.  Her  voice 
was  but  one  of  many  good-byes  to  the  shore,  yet  it  came 
to  him  out  of  the  tumult  of  voices  and  whistles — as  a  ewe 
to  find  her  own. 


MORNING  heard  some  one  nearby  say  that  so-and-so 
had  not  really  sailed,  but  was  just  going  down  the 
bay.  ...  It  was  thus  he  learned  that  he  might  have 
passed  the  forenoon  with  Betty  Berry  on  the  Chesa 
peake.  In  fact,  there  wras  no  reason  for  him  not  taking 
the  voyage.  ...  In  a  quick  rush  of  thinking,  as  he 
stood  there  on  the  piers,  all  his  weaknesses  paraded  be 
fore  him,  each  with  its  particular  deformity.  The  sorry 
pageant  ended  with  a  flourish,  and  he  was  left  alone  with 
the  throb  of  the  unhealed  wound  in  his  side. 

Betty  Berry  would  not  have  agreed  to  let  him  take 
the  voyage,  just  for  the  sake  of  being  with  her.  He 
knew  this  instinctively,  but  perhaps  it  might  have  been 
managed.  .  .  .  To  think  he  had  missed  the  chance 
of  the  forenoon.  .  .  .  The  liner  was  sliding  down 
the  passage,  already  forgotten  by  the  lower  city.  .  .  . 
Morning  found  himself  looking  into  the  window  of  a 
drink-shop.  Bottles  and  cases  of  wine  in  their  dust  and 
straw-coats  were  corded  in  the  window,  which  had  an 
English  dimness  and  look  of  age.  A  quiet  place;  the 
signs  attested  that  ales  were  drawn  from  the  wood  and 


148  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

that  many  whiskeys  of  quality  were  within.  Something 
of  attraction  for  the  spirituous  imagination  was  in  the 
sweet  woody  breath  that  reached  him  when  he  opened 
the  door.  A  series  of  race-horse  pictures  took  his  mind 
from  himself  to  better  things. 

These  influences  played  merely  upon  the  under-sur- 
faces  of  an  intelligence  whose  thoughts  followed  the 
steamer  down  the  Chesapeake  as  certainly  as  the  flock 
of  gulls.  ...  It  was  that  quiet  time  in  the  morning, 
after  the  floors  are  washed.  The  day  was  bright,  with 
just  a  touch  of  cold  in  the  air. 

.  .  .  A  drink  improved  him  generally.  He  exam 
ined  the  string  of  horses  again,  and  talked  to  the  man 
behind.  The  man  declared  it  was  his  law  not  to  drink 
oftener  than  once  in  the  half-hour,  during  the  forenoon ; 
he  stated  that  it  paid  to  exert  this  self-control,  as  his  ap 
petite  was  better  and  he  was  less  liable  to  "slop  over" 
in  the  afternoon.  Morning  was  then  informed  that  oys 
ters  were  particularly  good  just  now,  and  that  a  man  with 
a  weak  stomach  could  live  on  oysters.  .  .  .  There 
was  just  one  little  flange  of  an  oyster  that  was  indigest 
ible.  The  man  knew  this  because  drink  makes  one  dainty 
about  his  eating,  and  one  can  tell  what  agrees  with  him 
or  otherwise.  Furthermore,  one  could  detach  the  indi 
gestible  flange  in  one's  mouth  before  swallowing — anyone 
could  with  practice.  The  man  glanced  frequently  at  the 
clock.  .  .  .  Well,  he  would  break  over,  just  once, 
and  make  up  later.  A  half  hour  was  sometimes  a  con 
siderable  portage.  .  .  .  They  became  companion 
able. 

Morning  started  back  for  New  York  at  noon.  The 
particular  train  he  caught  was  one  of  the  best  of  its  kind. 
The  buffet,  the  quality  of  service  and  patronage  had  a 
different,  an  intimate  appeal  to-day.  He  sat  there  until 
dark — in  that  sort  of  intensive  thinking  which  seemed 
very  measured  and  effective  to  Morning.  His  chief 
trend  was  a  contemplation,  of  course,  of  the  night  before. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  149 

Aspects  appeared  that  did  not  obtrude  at  all  with  the 
woman  by  him.  Considering  the  opportunity,  he  had 
kissed  her  very  rarely,  as  he  came  to  think  of  it.  ... 

His  fellow-passengers  let  him  alone.  He  reflected 
that  he  could  always  get  along  with  the  lower  orders  of 
men — with  sailors,  soldiers,  bartenders ;  with  the  Jakes, 
Jethros,  and  Jerries  of  the  world.  Duke  Fallows  had 
remarked  this.  .  .  .  Duke  Fallows  .  .  .  the  old 
Liaoyang  adventure  came  back  more  clearly  than  it  had 
for  months.  .  .  .  That  was  a  big  set  of  doings.  Cer 
tainly  there  was  a  thrill  about  those  days,  when  one 
stopped  to  think. 

At  dinner  time,  approaching  the  end  of  the  journey, 
Morning  met  a  pronounced  disinclination  to  stay  on  the 
Jersey  side.  The  little  cabin  on  the  hill  was  certainly  not 
for  this  condition  of  mind.  He  had  to  stop  and  think  that 
it  was  only  yesterday  noon  when  he  left  the  cabin.  A 
period  of  time  that  flies  rapidly,  appears  strangely  long 
when  regarded  from  the  moments  of  its  closing.  The 
period  of  the  past  thirty  hours  since  he  had  left  the  hill 
was  like  a  sea-voyage.  The  lights  across  the  river  had 
a  surprising  attraction.  When  he  realized  the  old  steam 
of  alcohol,  his  mind  glibly  explained  that  it  was  merely 
an  episode  of  a  sick  and  overwrought  body ;  that  the  real 
John  Morning,  of  altruism  and  aspiration,  was  away  at 
sea  with  the  love-woman,  much  cherished,  the  very  soul 
of  him. 

More  than  a  half-year  before  he  had  fled  to  the  coun 
try,  weary  to  nausea  of  men  in  chairs  and  buffets.  The 
animalism  of  it  had  utterly  penetrated  him  at  last ;  the 
Conrad  study  was  but  one  of  many  revelations.  He  had 
hated  the  Boabdil;  and  hated  more  the  processes  of  his 
own  mind  when  alcohol  impelled.  Only  yesterday  morn 
ing  he  had  hated  the  whole  vanity  of  New  York  leisure, 
with  the  same  freshness  that  had  characterized  his  first 
month  of  cleanliness.  Yet  he  found  novelty  in  the  pres 
ent  adventure ;  the  prevailing  illusion  of  which  was  that 


150  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

he  was  wrong  yesterday  rather  than  now.  That  night 
he  sought  his  old  haunts.  There  was  a  gladness  about  it. 

"One  mustn't  be  too  much  alone,"  he  decided,  "espe 
cially  if  he  is  to  write.  ...  I  must  have  got  cocky 
sitting  there  alone  by  the  cabin-door.  .  .  .  These 
fellows  aren't  so  bad.  .  .  ." 

Presently  he  was  telling  the  old  story  of  Liaoyang. 
That  roused  him  a  little  and  pulled  upon  mental  fibers 
still  lame.  .  .  .  Was  he  to  be  identified  always  with 
that?  ...  A  week  later  he  was  telling  the  story  of 
breaking  away  from  the  Russians  at  Liaoyang  and  mak 
ing  the  journey  alone  to  Koupangtse.  This  was  in  a 
strangely  quiet  bar  on  Eighth  Avenue,  in  the  Forties.  A 
peculiarity  about  this  particular  telling  of  the  story  was 
that  he  remembered  the  ferryman  on  the  Hun — the  one 
who  had  wakened  the  river-front  as  he  led  Eve  down 
to  drink — the  ferryman  who  was  a  leper.  .  .  . 

As  days  passed  he  went  down  deeper  than  ever  be 
fore.  "I  must  have  had  this  coming "  he  would  say, 

and  refused  to  cross  the  river  to  rest.  There  were  mo 
ments  when  he  felt  too  unutterably  dirty  to  go  to  the 
cabin.  One  day,  he  kept  saying,  "I'm  going  to  see  this 
through."  And  on  another  day  he  reflected  continually 
(conscious  of  the  cleverness  of  the  thought)  that  this 
drink  passage  was  like  the  journey  to  Koupangtse. 
.  .  .  Then  there  was  the  occasion  when  it  broke  upon 
him  suddenly  that  he  was  being  avoided  at  the  Boabdil. 
He  never  went  back.  .  .  .  One  morning  he  joined 
some  sailors  who  had  breezed  in  from  afar.  They 
brought  him  memories  and  parlances ;  their  ways  were 
his  ways  all  that  day,  whose  long  drift  finally  brought 
them  to  Franey's  Lobelia,  as  tough  and  tight  a  little  bar 
as  you  would  ask  any  modern  metropolis  to  furnish.  The 
sailors  were  down  and  done-for  now,  but  Morning  stood 
by  for  the  end,  enjoying  the  place  and  the  wide  bleak 
ness  of  it.  ...  A  slumming  party  came  in  about 
midnight — young  men  and  women  of  richness  and  va- 


THE    HILL-CABIN  151 

riety,  trying  to  see  bottom  by  looking  straight  down — 
as  if  one  could  see  through  such  dirty  water. 

The  city's  dregs  about  him — a  fabric  of  idiocy  and 
perversion  and  murder — did  not  look  so  fatuous  nor 
wicked  to  Morning's  eye,  as  did  this  perfumed  company. 
They  thought  they  were  seeing  life,  but,  deeper  than 
brain,  they  knew  better;  their  laughter  and  their  voices 
were  off  the  key,  because  they  were  not  being  true  to 
themselves.  Franey's  regulars  were  glad  for  the  extra 
drinks,  but  Morning  had  a  fury.  His  shame  for  the 
party  was  akin  to  the  shame  he  had  held  for  Lowenkampf 
on  the  eve  of  battle  long  ago.  He  arose,  short  and 
flaming,  yet  conscious  even  in  his  rage  of  the  brilliance 
of  his  idea. 

"You  people  make  me  sick,"  he  said,  lurching  out. 
"You'd  have  to  be  slumee  to  see  how  silly  you  look " 

They  tried  to  detain  him — to  laugh  at  him — but  one 
woman  knew  better.  Her  low  voice  of  rebuke  to  her 
companions  was  a  far  greater  rebuke  to  John  Morning 
at  the  door. 

.  .  .  Finally  he  began  to  wonder  how  long  they 
would  keep  on  giving  him  money  at  the  bank.  He  turned 
up  every  day.  No  matter  what  he  drew  it  was  always 
gone.  Sometimes  a  holiday  tricked  him,  and  he  suf 
fered.  He  watched  for  Sundays,  after  he  learned. 
.  .  .  The  banking  business  was  a  hard  process,  be 
cause  he  had  to  emerge ;  had  to  come  right  up  to  the 
window  and  speak  to  a  clean,  white  man — who  had 
known  him  before.  It  became  the  sole  ascent  of  Morn 
ing's  day — a  torturing  one.  He  washed  and  shaved  for 
it,  when  possible,  and  after  a  time  managed  frequently  to 
save  enough  to  steady  his  nerves  for  the  ordeal.  Then 
he  had  to  write  his  name,  and  always  a  blue  eye  was 
leveled  at  him,  and  he  felt  the  dirt  in  his  throat.  .  .  . 
So  he  drifted  for  six  weeks,  and  it  was  winter. 

His  descent  was  abrupt  and  deep.  He  tried  to  get 
back,  and  found  his  will  treacherous.  He  was  prey  at 


152  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

times  to  abominable  fears.  His  body  was  unmanage 
able  from  illness.  There  were  times  when  it  would  have 
meant  death  or  insanity  not  to  drink.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  encountered  an  inertia  that  could  not  be 
whipped  to  the  point  of  reconstructivity.  His  thoughts 
cloyed  all  fine  things ;  his  expression  made  them  mawkish 
and  teary;  his  emotions  overflowed  on  small  matters. 
Betty  Berry,  around  whom  all  this  brooding  revolved, 
hardly  reached  a  plane  worthy  of  interpretation.  Morn 
ing's  conception  of  the  woman  on  the  afternoon  she  came 
to  the  Armory,  or  on  the  night-trip  to  Baltimore,  con 
trasted  with  this  mental  apparition  of  the  sixth  week : 

"She  is  a  professional  musician,  making  her  own  way 
in  the  world,  and  taking,  as  many  a  man  would,  the 
things  that  please  her  as  she  passes.  This  is  not  the  great 
thing  to  her  that  it  is  to  me.  Other  men  have  doubtless 
interested  her  suddenly  and  rousingly,  and  have  gone 
their  way.  .  .  .  Had  she  been  a  stranger  to  a  man's 
sudden  loving  she  would  never  have  beckoned  me  to 
the  chair  in  the  wings  that  night.  She  would  never  have 
come  to  my  arms — as  I  went  to  hers 

Sweat  broke  from  him.  The  savage  and  abandoned 
company  of  thoughts  had  ridden  down  all  else,  like  a 
troop  of  raiders,  destroying  as  they  went.  .  .  .  The 
troop  was  gone ;  the  shouting  died  away — but  he  was  left 
more  lewd  and  low  than  the  worst.  He  had  defiled  the 
image  of  the  woman  who  had  given  herself  so  eagerly. 
He  recalled  how  he  had  talked  of  understanding,  how 
he  had  praised  her  in  his  thoughts  because  she  was  brave 
enough  to  be  natural,  and  to  act  as  a  natural  woman  who 
has  found  her  own,  after  years  of  repression.  The  other 
side  of  the  shield  was  turned  to  torture  him — the  sweet, 
low-leaning,  human  tenderness  of  Betty  Berry,  her  pa 
tience,  her  endless  and  ever-varying  bestowals.  She  had 
called  his  the  voice  of  reality,  and  become  silent  before 
it ;  had  proved  great  enough  to  remain  undestroyed  in  a 
man's  world;  her  faith  and  spirit  arose  above  centuries 


THE    HILL-CABIN  153 

of  lineage  in  a  man's  world — and  she  was  Betty  Berry 
who  knew  her  lover's  presence,  though  they  were  almost 
strangers  to  each  other,  and  opened  her  arms  to 
him.  .  . 

It  was  a  hell  that  he  vividly  reviewed  for  seven  weeks, 
and  with  no  Virgil  to  guide.  A  scene  or  two  from  the 
final  day  is  enough : 

.  .  .  He  had  come  from  the  bank  about  one  in  the 
afternoon,  and  had  taken  a  chair  in  the  bar  of  the  Van 
Antwerp.  He  was  neither  limp  nor  sprawling,  but  in  a 
condition  of  queer  detachment  from  exterior  influences. 
He  knew  that  it  was  daylight ;  heard  voices  but  no 
words,  and  carried  himself  with  the  rigid  effort  of  one 
whose  limbs  are  habitually  flippant.  Perhaps  it  was  be 
cause  he  was  so  very  generous  to  the  waiter  that  he  was 
allowed  to  close  his  eyes  without  being  molested.  In 
any  event,  his  consciousness  betrayed  him,  and  away  he 
went  in  the  darkness  of  dream :  The  Ferryman  of  the 
Hun  was  poling  away  at  the  stream  and  he,  John  Morn 
ing,  was  but  one  of  a  company  in  passage.  It  was  not 
the  Hun  river  this  time ;  the  sorrel  Eve  was  not  there. 
Not  alone  the  Ferryman,  but  all  on  board  were  lepers — 
he,  John  Morning  in  the  midst  of  them,  a  leper.  The 
old  wound  was  witness  to  this.  .  .  .  They  tried  to 
land  at  the  little  towns  but  natives  came  forth  and  drove 
them  away.  Down,  down  stream  they  went  and  always 
natives  came  forth  to  warn  them  as  they  neared  the  land. 
.  .  .  Even  when  they  drew  in  to  the  marshes  and  the 
waste-places  natives  appeared  and  stoned  them  away. 
.  .  .  And  so  they  went  down — to  the  ocean  and  the 
storm  and  Morning  opened  his  eyes. 

Opposite,  his  back  to  the  marble  bar,  his  elbows 
braced  against  the  rail,  stood  Mr.  Reever  Kennard, 
watching  him,  and  the  look  upon  the  face  of  the  famous 
correspondent  was  that  of  scornful  pity — as  if  there  was 
a  truce  to  an  old  enmity,  no  longer  worth  while. 

Still   later   on    that    day,    over    on    Second    Avenue, 


154  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Morning  almost  bumped  into  a  small  yellow  sign  at  the 
elevator  entrance  to  the  Metal  Workers'  Hall,  to  the  ef 
fect  that  Duke  Fallows  was  to  address  a  gathering  there 
that  night. 

8 

A  FLASH  of  love  came  to  his  heart  for  Duke  Fallows 
at  the  sight  of  the  name.  There  was  nothing 
maudlin  about  this;  rather,  a  decent  bit  of  stamina  in 
the  midst  of  sentimental  overflows.  It  was  the  actual  in 
side  relation,  having  nothing  to  do  with  the  old  surface 
irritation.  .  .  .  Morning  took  care  of  himself  as 
well  as  he  could  during  the  day.  He  meant  to  mix  with 
the  crowd  at  the  meeting,  but  not  to  make  himself  known 
until  he  was  free  from  vileness.  He  would  keep  track 
of  the  other's  place  and  movements  in  New  York.  When 
he  was  fit — there  would  be  final  restoration  in  the  meet 
ing.  His  heart  thumped  in  anticipation.  The  yellow 
poster  had  turned  the  corner  for  him.  These  first 
thoughts  of  the  upward  trend  are  interesting: 

He  meant  to  cross  the  river  and  build  a  big  fire  in 
the  cabin.  There  he  would  fight  it  out  and  cleanse  the 
place  meanwhile,  in  preparation.  He  pictured  the  cabin- 
door  open,  water  on  the  floor,  the  fire  burning,  the  smell 
of  soap.  He  would  heat  water,  wash  his  blankets,  put 
them  out  in  the  sun ;  polish  his  kettles  with  water  and 
sand.  Every  detail  was  important,  and  how  strangely 
his  mind  welcomed  the  freshness  of  these  simple 
thoughts.  The  glass  of  the  windows  would  flash  in  the 
morning,  and  the  door  of  oak  would  gleam  with  its  oil. 
.  .  .  Finally  he  would  bring  Duke  there. 

This  was  the  triumph  of  it  all.  He  would  bring  the 
sick  man  home;  tend  the  fire  for  him,  go  to  the  dairy 
man's  for  milk  and  eggs.  They  could  call  Jake  and  talk 
to  him — seeing  the  heart  of  a  simple  man.  .  .  . 
They  would  talk  and  work  together  .  .  .  the  sick 


THE    HILL-CABIN  155 

man  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  he,  Morning,  at  the 
machine  as  in  the  old  days.  Spring  would  come,  the 
big  trees  would  break  their  buds  and  sprinkle  the  refuse 
down — and,  God,  it  would  be  green  again — all  this  rot 
ended.  ...  So  the  days  would  pass  quickly  until 
Betty  Berry  came.  .  .  .  Duke  would  be  glad  to  hear 
of  her. 

.  .  .  That  night  Morning  went  in  with  the  work 
ers  to  their  Hall  and  sat  far  back.  The  meeting  had 
been  arranged  under  socialistic  auspices ;  seven  hundred 
men  at  least  were  present.  Through  the  haze  of  pipe, 
cigarette,  and  cigars,  Duke  Fallows  came  forth. 

And  this  was  no  sick  man.  His  knees  were  strong, 
and  there  was  a  lightness  of  shoulder  that  did  away  with 
the  huddle  of  old  times.  His  eyes  shone  bright  under 
the  hanging  lamp,  and  his  laugh  was  as  far  as  Asia  from 
scorn.  There  was  brown  upon  him ;  his  hands,  when 
they  fell  idle,  were  curved  as  if  to  fit  a  broad-ax,  and 
"I'm  glad  to  be  with  you,  men,"  he  said. 

"...  I  have  come  to  tell  you  a  story — my  story. 
Every  man  has  one.  I  never  tell  mine  twice  the  same, 
but  some  time  I  shall  tell  it  just  right,  and  then  the  an 
swer  shall  come." 

Power  augmented  in  the  silence  of  the  smoky  hall. 
The  gathering  recognized  the  artist  that  had  come  down 
to  them,  because  he  loved  the  many  and  belonged  with 
them.  They  gave  him  instinctively  the  rare  homage  of 
uncritical  attention.  Fallows  told  of  Liaoyang — of  the 
whole  preparation — of  the  Russian  singing,  the  generals, 
the  systems  by  which  men  were  called  to  service.  Always 
the  theme  that  played  through  this  prelude  was  the  mil 
let  of  Manchuria.  He  told  of  the  great  grain  fields,  the 
feeding  troop-horses,  the  hollows  between  the  hills — how 
the  ancient  Chinese  city  stood  in  a  bend  of  the  river — 
of  the  outer  fighting,  the  rains,  the  mass  of  men,  the 
Chinese. 

This  new  Duke  Fallows  hated  no  man ;  had  no  scorn 


i5 6  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

for  the  Russian  chiefs.  His  ideas  of  service  and  hu 
manity  concerned  Russia  rather  than  Japan — and  not  the 
imperialistic  Russia,  but  the  real  spirit — the  toiler,  the 
dreamer,  the  singer,  the  home-maker — the  Russia  that 
was  ready,  perhaps  as  ready  as  any  people  in  the  world, 
to  put  away  envy,  hatred,  war;  to  cease  lying  to  itself, 
and  to  grasp  the  reality  that  there  is  something  immor 
tal  about  simplicity  of  life  and  service  for  others.  What 
concerned  this  Russia,  Fallows  declared,  concerned  the 
very  soul  of  the  western  world. 

He  placed  the  field  for  the  battle  in  a  large  way — the 
silent,  watery  skies,  all-receiving  kao-liang,  and  the  moist 
earth  that  held  the  deluges.  Morning  choked  at  the  pic 
ture;  the  action  came  back  again  as  Fallows  spoke — 
Lowenkampf  himself — the  infantry  of  Lowenkampf 
slipping  down  the  ledges  into  the  grain — Luban,  machine- 
guns,  rout — the  little  open  place  in  the  millet  where  the 
Fallows  part  of  the  battle  was  fought. 

".  .  .  He  was  a  young  Russian  peasant.  If  he 
came  into  this  hall  now,  we  would  all  know  instinctively 
that  he  belonged  to  us.  He  was  fine  to  look  upon  that 
day,  coming  out  of  the  grain — earnest,  glad,  his  heart 
turned  homeward.  His  enemy  was  not  Japan,  but  Im 
perialism,  and  defeat  was  upon  it.  This  defeat  meant  to 
him,  as  it  did  to  hundreds  of  soldiers  in  that  hour — the 
beginning  of  the  road  home.  Luban  was  burning  with 
the  shame  of  detected  cowardice.  A  common  soldier  had 
commented  upon  it  in  passing.  And  now  this  young 
Russian  peasant  met  the  eyes  of  Luban,  and  the  two 
began  to  speak,  and  I  was  there  to  listen. 

"The  peasant  said  that  this  was  not  his  war ;  that  he 
had  been  forced  to  come ;  that  it  meant  nothing  to  him 
if  Russia  took  Manchuria ;  but  that  it  meant  a  very  great 
deal  to  him — this  being  away — because  his  six  babies 
were  not  being  fed  by  the  Fatherland,  and  his  field  was 
not  being  ploughed. 

"It  was  very  simple.     You  see  it  all.     The  Father- 


THE    HILL-CABIN  157 

land  forced  starvation  upon  a  man's  children,  while  his 
field  remained  unploughed.  Only  a  simple  man  could  say 
it.  You  must  be  straight  as  a  child  to  speak  such  epics. 
It  is  what  you  men  have  thought  in  your  hearts. 

"Of  course,  Luban  only  knew  he  was  an  officer  and 
the  man  was  not.  Machine-guns  were  drumming  in  the 
distance,  and  the  grain  was  hot  and  breathless  all  about. 
The  forward  ranks  were  terribly  broken — the  soldiers 
streaming  back  past  us.  Luban,  who  opened  the  discus 
sion,  was  getting  the  worst  of  it,  and  his  best  reply  was 
murder.  He  handled  the  little  automatic  gun  better  than 
the  cause  of  the  Fatherland — shot  the  Ploughman 

-«  o 

through  the  breast.  I  thrust  him  back  to  take  the  fall 
ing  one  in  my  arms.  . 

"We  seemed  alone  together.  There  was  power  upon 
me.  Even  in  the  swiftness  and  tumult  of  the  passing  I 
made  the  good  man  see  that  I  would  father  his  babes, 
look  to  the  ploughing  of  his  field,  and  be  the  son  of  his 
mother.  His  passing  made  all  clear  to  me.  His  message 
was  straight  from  the  heart  of  the  world's  suffering 
poor,  from  the  heavy-laden.  He  spoke  to  kings  and  gen 
erals,  and  to  all  who  have  and  are  blind.  There  in  the 
havoc  of  the  retreat,  dying  in  my  arms — he  made  it  vivid 
as  the  smiting  sun  of  Saul — that  this  hideous  disorder 
of  militia  was  not  his  Fatherland.  He  would  have  fought 
for  the  real  Fatherland.  He  was  a  son  in  spirit,  and  a 
state-builder ;  he  would  have  fought  for  that ;  he  was 
not  afraid  to  die.  .  .  . 

"Love  for  him  had  come  strangely  to  my  heart,  men. 
I  said  to  him — words  I  cannot  remember  now — some 
thing  I  had  never  been  able  to  write,  because  I  had  not 
written  for  men  before,  but  for  some  fancied  elect.  I 
made  him  know  that  he  had  done  well,  that  his  field 
would  bring  forth,  and  that  his  house  would  glow  red 
with  firelight.  ...  I  think  my  Ploughman  felt  as  I 
did  even  before  his  heart  was  still — that  there  is  some 
thing  beyond  death  in  the  love  of  men  for  one  another. 


158  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

.  .  .  It  was  wonderful.  We  forgot  the  battle. 
We  forgot  Luban  and  the  firing.  We  were  one.  His 
spirit  was  upon  me — and  the  good  God  gave  him 
peace. 

"I  tell  you  quietly,  but  don't  you  see — this  that  I 
bring  so  quietly  is  the  message  from  the  Ploughman  who 
passed — the  message  of  Liaoyang?  And  this  is  the  sen 
tence  of  it:  Where  there  is  a  real  Fatherland — there 
will  be  Brotherhood. 

"The  world  is  so  full  of  pallor  and  agony  and  sick 
ness  and  stealing.  First,  it  is  because  of  the  Lubans. 
The  Lubans  are  sick  for  power — sick  with  their  desires. 
Having  no  self-mastery,  they  are  lost  and  full  of  fear. 
They  fear  the  whip,  they  fear  poverty  and  denial ;  theirs 
is  a  continual  fear  of  being  stripped  to  the  nakedness 
of  what  they  are — as  old  Mother  Death  strips  a  man.  In 
the  terror  of  all  these  things  they  seek  to  turn  the  whip 
upon  others,  to  reinforce  their  emptiness  with  exterior 
possessions.  Because  their  souls  are  dying,  and  because 
they  feel  the  terror  of  sheer  mortality,  they  seek  to  kill 
the  virtue  in  other  men.  Because  they  cannot  master 
themselves,  they  rise  in  passion  to  master  others.  They 
could  not  live  but  for  the  herds. 

"We  who  labor  are  the  strength  of  the  world.  I  say 
to  you,  men,  poverty  is  the  God's  gift  to  His  elect.  It  is 
to  us  who  have  only  ourselves  to  master — that  the  dream 
of  Brotherhood  can  come  true.  It  is  alone  to  us,  who 
have  nothing,  that  these  possessions  can  come,  which  old 
Mother  Death  is  powerless  to  take  away.  And  we  who 
labor  and  are  heavy-laden  are  making  our  colossal  error 
to-day.  We  are  the  muttering  herds.  Standing  with  the 
many  we  may  not  know  ourselves.  We  look  upon  the 
cowardice  and  emptiness  of  the  Lubans  and  call  it  Power. 
We  see  the  ways  of  the  Herd-drivers — and  dream  of 
driving  others,  instead  of  ourselves.  We  look  upon  the 
Herd-drivers — and  turn  upon  them  the  same  thoughts 
of  envy  and  hatred  and  cruelty — which  cuts  them  off 


THE    HILL-CABIN*  159 

from  every  source  of  power  and  leaves  them  empty  and 
cowardly  indeed. 

"These  are  the  thoughts  of  the  herds — and  yet  down 
in  the  muscling  mass  men  are  not  to  blame.  It  takes 
room  for  a  man  to  be  himself — it  takes  room  for  a  man 
to  love  his  neighbor  and  to  master  himself.  Terrified, 
whipped,  packed,  sick  with  the  struggle  and  the  strain  of 
it  all — how  can  men,  turning  to  one  another,  find  brother 
hood  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellows.  Living  the  life  of  the 
laboring  herds  in  the  great  cities — why,  it  would  take 
Gods  to  love  men  so !  .  .  .  The  world  is  so  full  of 
pallor  and  agony  and  sickness  and  stealing — first,  be 
cause  of  the  Lubans,  and,  second,  because  of  the  City. 
.  .  .  And  after  Liaoyang,  I  went  straight  to  the 
Ploughman's  house — for  I  had  given  my  \vord.  And 
now  I  will  tell  you  what  I  found  on  the  little  hill-farm 
up  in  the  Schwarenka  district  among  the  toes  of  the  Bosk 
mountains,  a  still  country." 


9 

REMEMBER  the  soldiers  at  Liaoyang,  the  last 
thing,  the  many  who  had  grasped  at  the  hope  that 
defeat  meant  the  end  of  the  war.  They  were  learning 
differently  as  I  left.  Hundreds  gave  up  from  the  great 
loneliness.  ...  I  carried  the  name  of  my  Plough 
man  across  the  brown  country,  and  the  northern  autumn 
was  trying  to  hold  out  against  the  frosts.  Asia  is  deso 
late.  We  who  are  white  men,  and  who  know  a  bit  of  the 
loveliness  of  life — even  though  we  labor  at  that  which 
is  not  our  life — we  must  grant  that  the  Northern  Chinese 
have  learned  this :  To  suffer  quietly. 

"Baikal  was  crossed  at  last.  On  and  on  by  train  into 
the  West — until  I  came  to  the  little  village  that  he  had 
said.  For  days  it  had  been  like  following  a  dream. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  so  wonderful — that  young 


i6o  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

man  coming  out  of  the  millet,  and  what  he  said — that  I 
thought  it  must  have  come  to  me  in  a  vision,  that  I  was 
mad  to  look  for  his  town  and  the  actual  house  in  the 
country  beyond.  Yet  they  knew  his  name  in  the  little 
town,  and  said  that  early  next  morning  I  could  get  a 
wagon  to  take  me  to  the  cabin,  which  was  some  versts 
away. 

"I  had  known  so  much  of  cities.  For  weeks  I  had 
been  in  the  noises  of  the  Liaoyang  fighting  and  in  trains. 
Moreover,  I  had  been  ill  for  a  long  time,  too — a  crawl 
ing,  deadly  illness.  But  that  night' my  soul  breathed.  I 
ate  black  bread  by  candle-light  and  drank  milk.  The 
sharpness  of  mid-October  was  in  the  air.  You  will 
laugh  when  I  say  it  seemed  to  me,  an  American,  as  if 
I  had  come  home.  In  the  morning  early  I  looked  away 
to  the  East,  from  whence  I  had  come,  and  where  the 
sun  was  rising.  (The  ceiling  of  the  little  room  was  so 
low  I  had  to  bend  my  head.)  To  the  north  the  moun 
tains  were  sharp  in  the  morning  light  and  shining  like 
amethyst.  .  .  .  I  left  the  wagon  at  the  first  sight  of 
the  hut  in  the  distance,  and  I  reached  there  in  the  warmth 
of  the  morning. 

"An  old  man  was  sitting  in  the  sun.  He  asked  me  to 
have  bread,  and  said  they  had  some  sausage  for  the 
coming  Sunday.  This  was  mid-week.  A  child  brought 
good  water.  Then  I  heard  the  cane  of  the  old  woman, 
and  saw  her  hand  first,  as  it  thrust  the  cane  out  from 
the  door — all  brown  and  palsied,  the  hand,  its  veins 
raised  and  the  knuckles  twisted  from  the  weight  that  bent 
her  fingers  against  the  curve  of  the  stick.  The  rest  was 
so  pure.  She  had  been  a  tall  woman — very  thin  and  bent 
and  white  now.  When  I  looked  into  that  face  I  saw 
the  soul  of  the  Ploughman.  I  can  tell  you  I  wanted  to 
be  there.  It  was  very  strange.  ...  I  can  see  her 
now,  looking  up  at  me,  as  the  old  do  from  their  leaning. 
It  was  like  the  purity  and  distance  of  the  morning.  I 
trembled,  too,  before  this  old  wife,  for  the  fact  in  my 


THE    HILL-CABIN  161 

mind  about  her  son.  I  tell  you,  old  mother-birds  are 
wise. 

"It  was  as  if  my  garments  smelled  of  the  fight 
ing.  She  knew  whence  I  had  come ;  she  looked  into 
my  soul  and  found  the  death  of  her  son.  Her 
soul  knew  it,  but  not  her  brain  yet.  She  may  have 
found  my  love  for  him,  too — the  deep  bond  be 
tween  us. 

'  'Ask  the  stranger  to  stay.  We  will  have  sausage 
by  the  Sunday/  said  the  old  man.  His  thought  was  held 
by  hunger. 

'  'Hush,  Jan — he  comes  from  our  son ' 

"  'And  where  are  the  children  and  the  young  mother?' 
I  asked. 

r  'They  are  out  for  faggots  in  the  bush — they  will 
come — 

"I  had  thought,  as  I  traveled,  (the  thoughts  of  the 
weeks  on  the  road,)  to  do  many  things  ;  to  give  them 
plentifully  of  money;  to  arrange  for  someone  to  do  the 
late  fall  and  winter  work.  I  had  intended  to  go  on, 
when  sure  that  everything  v/as  at  hand  to  make  them 
comfortable.  I  tell  you,  men,  it  was  all  too  living  for 
that.  One  could  not  perform  unstudied  benefits  for  the 
mother  of  the  Ploughman.  There  was  more  than  money 
wanted  there. 

"  'We  would  like  to  have  you  stay  with  us/  the 
mother  said,  'but  our  poverty  is  keen,  and  we  have  not 
bread  enough  now  for  the  winter.  .  .  .  He  was 
taken  long  before  the  harvest,  and  it  is  long  until  the 
grain  comes  again ' 

"  'But  if  he  were  here — what  would  be  done, 
Mother?' 

"  'Ah,  if  he  came/  she  said  strangely.  'If  he 
came ' 

"The  father  now  spoke : 

"  'He  would  cut  wood  for  our  neighbors  this  winter — 
when  the  ploughing  was  finished.  That  would  provide 


1 62  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

food — good  food.  Oh,  he  would  know  what  to  do — 
our  Jan  would  know ' 

"I  won't  soon  forget  that  high,  wavering  voice  of 
the  old  man — 'Oh,  he  would  know  what  to  do — our  Jan 
is  a  good  son '  and  the  shake  of  his  head. 

"  'But  may  I  not  do  some  of  the  things  that  he 
would  do?' 

"I  had  to  say  it  twice,  for  I  spoke  their  language 
poorly.  I  had  understood  the  son  at  Liaoyang — but  all 
moments  were  not  like  those  in  which  he  spoke  to  me. 

"  'And  then,'  I  added  hastily,  'he  sent  you  some 
money ' 

"I  dared  not  offer  much  with  that  pure  old  face  look 
ing  at  me.  The  silver  and  gold  that  was  in  my  purse 
I  put  in  her  lap. 

"  'Oh,  it  is  very  much — the  good  God  brought  you 
from  him,  did  he  not?' 

"  'And  we  will  not  need  to  wait  until  Sunday  for ' 

"  'Hush — Jan — no,  we  will  not  need  to  wait.' 

".  .  .  And  then  the  young  mother  came.  I  saw 
her  steps  quicken  when  yet  she  was  far  off.  The  little 
ones  were  about  her — all  carrying  something.  The  older 
children  were  laughing  a  little,  but  the  others  were  quiet 
in  their  haste  and  effort  to  keep  up.  .  .  .  There  was 
one  little  boy,  but  I  will  tell  you  afterward  of  the  littlest 
Jan.  .  .  .  There  was  a  pallor  over  the  brood.  Their 
health  was  pure,  and  their  blood  strong,  but  that  pallor 
had  come.  Men,  it  was  hunger  already.  Here  were  the 
fields,  and  the  Fatherland  had  taken  him  before  the  har 
vest.  This  thing,  the  shocking  truth  of  it ;  that  this  ac 
tually  could  be ;  that  a  country  could  do  such  a  thing — 
made  me  forget  everything  else  for  the  moment.  Then 
I  realized  that  I  must  keep  the  truth  from  the  young 
mother.  Before  I  spoke  at  all  they  told  her  that  I  had 
come  from  her  husband. 

"Her  lips  were  white,  her  breasts  wasted.  She  was 
lean  from  hunger,  lean  from  her  bearing.  Young  she 


THE    HILL-CABIN  163 

was  for  the  six,  but  much  had  she  labored,  and  there 
was  a  mountain  wildness  in  her  eyes.  She  was  stilled, 
as  the  old  mother  had  been,  by  the  fear  of  hearing 
her  man's  death.  She  dared  not  ask.  She  accepted  what 
was  said — that  I  had  come  from  him,  that  I  had  brought 
money,  and  wished  to  stay  for  a  little.  .  .  .  She 
leaned  against  the  door,  the  smaller  children  gathering 
at  her  knees,  the  others  putting  away  the  wood.  Her 
single  skirt  hung  square,  and  her  arms  seemed  very 
long,  nearly  to  her  knees ;  her  hands  loose  and  tired. 
Her  hair  was  yellow ;  the  wind  had  tossed  it.  You  know 
how  a  horse  that  has  been  listening,  suddenly  catches  his 
breath  again.  The  same  sound  came  from  her  as  she 
started  to  breathe  again.  .  .  .  One  of  the  smaller 
children  laughed,  and  I  looked  down.  It  was  the  little 
four-year-old,  the  third  Jan  of  that  house,  and  he  was 
close  to  my  knees,  looking  up  at  me  .  .  .  and  we 
were  all  together. 

"I  loved  the  world  better  after  that  look  of  the  child 
into  my  eyes.  ...  I  took  him  on  my  shoulder.  We 
went  to  the  village  together.  That  night  the  wagon 
brought  us  back ;  there  was  much  food.  .  .  .  And 
that  was  my  house.  I  looked  out  on  the  mountains  the 
next  day,  and  for  many  days  to  come,  and,  men — their 
grand  sky-wide  simplicity  poured  into  my  heart.  I  took 
the  old  horse  out,  and  we  ploughed  during  the  few  days 
remaining.  There  was  not  much  land — but  we  ploughed 
it  together  to  the  end,  when  the  frost  made  the  upturned 
clods  ring.  Then  I  strawed  up  the  shed  for  the  old  horse 
to  pass  his  winter  in  warmth,  and  brought  blankets  for 
him.  I  respected  that  old  horse.  Health  and  good- 
fellowship  had  come  to  me  as  we  worked  together.  I 
remember  the  sharp  turning  of  the  early  afternoons  from 
yellow  to  gray  and  to  dark.  .  .  .  Then  we  went  into 
the  bush  together  in  the  early  winter  days.  The  ax  rang, 
and  the  snow-bolt  was  piled  high  each  day  with  wood. 
The  smell  of  the  wood-smoke  in  the  morning  air  had  a 


1 64  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

zest  for  my  nostrils  I  had  never  known  before,  and  at 
night  the  cabin  windows  were  red  with  fire-light.  We 
were  all  one  together.  And  I  think  the  spirit  of  the 
Ploughman  was  there  in  the  happiness. 

"Sometimes  in  the  night  when  I  would  get  up  to  re 
plenish  the  fire — the  mystery  of  plain  goodness  would 
come  to  me.  I  would  see  the  children  and  others  all 
around.  Then  at  the  frosty  window,  shading  the  fire 
from  my  eyes,  I  looked  out  upon  the  snows.  I  was  un 
able  to  contain  the  simple  grandeurs  that  had  unfolded 
to  me  day  by  day.  .  .  .  And  then  I  would  go  back 
to  the  blankets  where  the  little  boy  lay — his  hand  always 
fumbling  for  me  as  I  crept  in.  The  love  that  I  felt 
for  this  child  was  beyond  all  fear.  We  could  stand  to 
gether  against  any  fate.  And  one  night  it  came  to  me 
that  from  much  loving  of  one  a  man  learns  to  love  the 
many,  and  that  I  would  really  be  a  man  when  I  learned 
to  love  the  world  with  the  same  patience  and  passion 
that  I  loved  the  little  boy.  The  Ploughman  came  along 
in  a  dream  that  night  and  said  it  was  all  quite  true. 

"And  that  was  the  winter.  ...  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  this  sick  man  who  had  come.  I  had  lain  on 
my  back  for  months,  except  when  some  great  effort 
aroused  me.  I  had  that  coming  on,  men,  which  makes  a 
man  walk — as  a  circus  bear  turns  and  totters  on  his 
back  feet.  The  house,  the  field,  the  plough,  the  horse, 
woods,  winter,  and  mountains,  love  for  the  child,  love  for 
all  the  others — the  much  that  my  hands  found  to  do  and 
the  heart  found  to  give — these  things  made  me  new 
again.  These  simple  sound  and  holy  things. 

"I  had  been  a  sick  man  mentally  and  morally,  too, 
sick  with  ego  and  intellect — a  nasty  sickness.  But  one 
could  not  look,  feeling  the  joy  in  which  I  lived,  upon  the 
snows  of  the  foothills,  nor  afar  through  the  yellow  win 
ter  noons  to  the  gilded  summits  of  the  Bosks ;  one  could 
not  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  children,  the  last  vestige  of 
hunger  pallor  gone  from  them ;  one  could  not  talk  of 


THE    HILL-CABIN  165 

tobaccoand-sausage  with  the  old  man  by  his  fireside ;  nor 
watch  the  mysterious  great  givings  of  the  two  mothers — 
their  whole  lives  giving — pure  instruments  of  giving 
— passionate  givers,  they  were  ;  givers  of  life  and  preserv 
ers  of  life — I  say,  men,  one  could  not  live  in  this  purity 
and  not  put  away  such  evil  and  cruel  things.  .  .  . 
As  the  sickness  of  the  blood  went  from  me — so  that 
sickness  of  mind.  .  .  .  And,  I  tell  you,  we  were  ready 
as  a  house  could  be,  when  the  news  came  officially  that 
our  Ploughman  was  among  the  missing  from  the  battle 
of  Liaoyang. 

"It  was  sharper  than  any  winter  night.  We  stood  in 
the  cabin  and  wept  together.  Then  in  the  hush — the 
real  thought  of  it  all  came  to  one — to  whom,  do  you 
think?  .  .  .  She  was  on  her  knees — the  old  mother 
— praying  for  the  other  peasant  cabins  in  Russia — the 
thousands  of  others  from  which  a  son  and  husband  was 
gone — 'cabins  to  which  the  good  God  has  not  sent  such  a 
friend.'  ...  I  tell  you,  men,  all  the  evil  of  past 
days  seemed  washed  from  me  in  that  hour.  .  .  . 
And  that  is  my  home.  (The  old  horse  and  I  opened  the 
fields  again  in  the  springtime.) 

"After  that  I  went  down  to  Petersburg  to  tell  my 
story,  and  to  Moscow.  I  have  told  it  in  cellars  and 
stables — in  Berlin,  in  Paris,  and  London.  I  am  making 
the  great  circle — to  tell  it  here — and  on,  when  we  are 
finished,  to  Chicago,  to  Denver  and  San  Francisco — and 
then  the  long  sail  homeward,  following  the  first  journey 
to  the  foothills  of  the  Bosk  range.  I  will  go  to  my  old 
mother  there,  and  to  the  little  boy,  who  looked  up  into 
my  eyes — as  if  we  were  born  to  play  and  talk  and  sleep 
together. 

"The  days  of  the  conscript  gangs  are  over  here,  men. 
Such  days  are  numbered,  even  in  Russia.  They  don't 
come  to  your  door  in  this  country  and  take  you  away 
from  your  work  to  fight  across  the  world — but  the  Lu- 
"bans  are  here — and  the  cities  are  full  of  horror.  It  is 


1 66  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

in  the  cities  where  the  herds  are,  where  the  little  Lubans 
whip,  and  the  bigger  Lubans  thrive.  In  the  pressure 
and  heaviness  of  the  cities — the  thought  that  comes  to  the 
herd  is  the  old  hideous  conception  of  the  multitude — 
that  the  way  of  the  Lubans  is  the  way  of  life.  .  .  . 
It  isn't  the  way.  The  way  of  life  has  nothing  to  do 
with  greed,  nor  with  envy,  nor  with  schemes  against  the 
bread  of  other  men.  It  is  a  way  of  peace  and  affilia 
tion — of  standing  together.  And  you  who  have  little 
can  go  that  way;  you  who  labor  can  go  that  way — be 
cause  you  are  the  strength  of  the  world.  Don't  resist 
your  enemies,  men — leave  them.  The  Master  of  us  all 
told  us  that.  And  when  the  herds  break,  and  this  modern 
hell  of  the  city  is  diminished — the  Lubans  will  follow 
you  out — whining  and  bereft,  they  will  follow  you  out, 
as  the  lepers  of  Peking  follow  the  caravans  to  the  gates 
and  beyond.  ...  I  have  told  you  of  my  home — 
the  little  cabin  that  came  to  me  from  the  beginnings  of 
compassion.  And  there  is  such  a  home  for  every  man 
of  you — in  the  still  countries  where  the  voice  of  God 
may  be  heard." 

Morning,  desperately  ill,  rose  to  leave  the  hall.  In 
the  momentary  hush,  as  he  reached  the  door,  the  voice 
of  Duke  Fallows  was  raised  again,  calling  his  name. 


10 

"  a  second  time. 

Morning  turned,  his  arms  lifted  despairingly. 
"Wait,  John,  I'll  join  you !" 
Fallows  came  down.     .     .     .     The  man  who  gently 
held  the  door  shut  smiled  with  strange  kindness.    There 
was    a    shining    of    kindness    in    men's    faces.     .     .     . 
Morning  did  not  feel  that  he  belonged.    He  was  broken 
and  shamed.     .     .     .     The  big  man  was  upon  him — the 
long  arms  tossed  about  him. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  167 

"I've  been  looking  and  listening  for  you  too  long, 
John,  to  let  you  go." 

"...  I  just  wanted  to  hear  you.  I'm  shot  to  pieces, 
Duke;  I'll  get  a  few  drinks  and  wait  for  you.  Then, 
you'll  see,  I'm  all  out  of  range  of  the  man  you  are " 

There  was  no  answer.  Morning  looked  up  to  find 
the  long  bronzed  face  laughing,  the  eye  gleaming.  Fal 
lows  turned  to  the  doorman  and  another,  saying : 

"Both  of  you  go  with  him.  He  needs  a  drink  or  two, 
and  one  of  you  come  back  to  show  me  the  way  to  him 
— when  I'm  through  here.  .  .  .  This  is  a  great  night 
for  us,  John." 

The  three  went  down  in  the  elevator.  .  .  .  And  so 
the  sick  man  had  not  come  back — the  dithyrambic  Duke 
Fallows  was  gone  for  good.  The  sick  man  was  strong ; 
the  impassioned  phrase-maker  had  risen  to  the  simple 
testimony  of  service.  From  scorn  and  emotion,  from 
judgment  and  selection,  he  had  risen  to  the  plane  of  lov 
ing  kindness.  .  .  .  The  air  in  the  street  refreshed 
him  a  little.  Morning  found  a  bar. 

"I've  been  drinking,"  he  said  to  the  men.  "Fallows 
is  a  king.  I  was  there  with  him  at  Liaoyang.  .  .  . 
Maybe  you  saw  my  story  in  the  World-News.  .  .  . 
He  stayed  in  the  grain  with  Luban.  I  went  on  to  see  the 
cavalry  fight.  ...  I  came  back  home  to  do  the  story. 
He  went  on  to  Russia  on  the  Ploughman  story 

"Is  he  a  preacher?"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"Yes — but  he  learned  about  war  and  women  first." 

"I'll  take  a  soft  drink  and  go  back.  You  stay  here, 
and  I'll  bring  him  to  you,"  the  same  one  went  on. 

The  other  drank  with  Morning  and  agreed  that  they 
would  not  leave  until  Fallows  came. 

"And  so  he  learned  about  war  and  women  first,"  he 
said  queerly,  when  they  were  alone.  "But  he  has  been  a 
laboring  man " 

"Yes.    You  heard  him." 

"But  before  that  farm  in  Russia " 


1 68  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

"Oh,  yes ;  he  was  a  laborer." 

"Well,  he  certainly  got  the  crowd  with  him,"  the  man 
acknowledged. 

"You  know  why,  don't  you?"  Morning  said  impres 
sively. 

"No." 

"He's  for  the  crowd.    People  feel  it." 

"Oh,  I  knew  that." 

There  was  quiet,  and  then  the  face  turned  to  Morn 
ing: 

"Say,  how  did  you  get  such  a  start  as  this?     This 
kind  means  weeks " 

"It  got  away  from  me  before  I  knew  it.  I  must 
have  got  to  gambling  with  myself  to  see  how  far  I 
could  go." 

"Are  you  going  to  quit?" 

A  mist  filled  Morning's  mind.  The  question  seemed 
an  infringement.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  how  he  had 
fallen  to  lying  to  himself. 

"He'll  make  you  quit,  but  don't  let  him  stop  you  too 
short.  You'd  be  a  wreck  in  a  few  hours.  You  see  how 
you  needed  these  two  or  three  drinks?" 

.  .  .  Fallows  entered  with  several  of  the  commit 
tee.  He  had  promised  to  speak  to  them  again. 

"It's  what  I  came  for,"  he  was  saying.  "So  long  as  I 
am  wanted  I'll  stay.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm  a  socialist. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  believe  in  fighting,  but  when  our  kind  of 
men  stand  together,  there  won't  be  anything  big  enough 
to  give  us  a  fight.  When  our  kind  of  men  look  into  one 
another's  eyes  and  find  service  instead  of  covetousness — 
there's  nothing  in  the  world  to  stand  against  us." 

Fallows  and  Morning  were  in  a  steam-room  together 
two  hours  afterward.  Morning  was  limp  and  light 
headed.  He  had  told  of  some  of  the  things  that  had 
happened  since  Baltimore — of  men  he  had  met — of  the 
slummers — of  harrowing  nights  and  waiting  for  the  bank 
to  open. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  169 

"You  had  to  have  it,  John?" 

There  was  something  in  the  way  Fallows  spoke  the 
word,  John,  that  made  Morning  weaker  and  filled  his 
throat.  He  had  to  speak  loudly  for  the  hissing  of  the 
steam. 

"Why,  if  you  didn't  get  humble  and  stay  humble  after 
such  a  training — you'd  be  the  poorest  human  experi 
ment  ever  undertaken  by  the  Master.  But  you  can't  fail. 
It  isn't  in  the  cards  to  fail.  You've  ridden  several 
monsters — Drink,  Ambition,  Literature — but  they  won't 
get  you  down.  Why,  even  the  sorrel  mare  didn't  kill 
you,  as  I  promised  aforetime.  I  saw  a  lot  in  that  story. 
You  loved  her  to  the  last.  You  left  her  dead  and  hunched 
on  an  alien  road.  You've  loved  these  others  long  enough. 
You'll  leave  them  dead — even  that  big  fame  stuff.  I 
think  you've  ridden  that  pompous  fool  to  death  already. 
They  are  all  passages  on  the  way  to  Initiation.  Your 
training  for  service  is  a  veritable  inspiration — and  you'll 
write  to  men — down  among  men.  I  love  that  idea — you'll 
write  the  story  of  Compassion — down  among  men " 

Fallows'  face  came  closer  through  the  steam.  He 
scrutinized  the  wound  that  wouldn't  heal.  "Did  you  ever 
hear  about  Saint  Paul's  thorn  in  the  flesh?  .  .  . 
'And  lest  I  be  exalted  above  measure  through  the  abun 
dance  of  revelations,  there  was  given  me  a  thorn  in  the 
flesh — ?'  It  all  works  out.  You'll  have  to  excuse  me. 
The  Bible  was  the  only  book  I  had  with  me  up  in  the 
Bosk  country.  I  found  it  all  I  wanted.  I  would  take 
it  again.  .  .  .  Yes,  John,  it's  all  right  with  you." 

Morning  was  telling  of  that  afternoon  at  the  Armory. 
He  passed  over  quickly  the  period  of  worldly  achieve 
ment  in  New  York  to  the  quiet  blessedness  he  had  hit 
upon,  finding  the  hill  and  the  elms. 

"That's  the  formula — to  get  alone  and  listen " 

"That's  what  you  preached  to-night,  wasn't  it?" 
.  .  .  Presently  he  was  back  to  Betty  Berry  again — 
finding  her  at  the  'cello — the  wonderful  ride  to  Balti- 


i  yo  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

more — which  brought  him  to  the  drink  chapter  once 
more.  .  .  .  He  couldn't  see  Duke's  face  as  he  spoke 
of  the  woman.  There  was  a  peculiar  need  of  the  other 
saying  something  when  he  had  finished.  This  only  was 
offered : 

"We  won't  talk  about  that  now,  John.  .  .  . 
You'd  better  take  another  little  drink.  Your  voice  is 
down.  .  .  .  You'll  be  through  after  a  day  or  two, 
and  I'll  stay  with  you " 

"We'll  go  over  to  the  cabin  to-morrow,"  said  Morn 
ing. 

They  were  lying  cot  by  cot  in  the  cooling-room,  and 
the  talk  for  a  time  concerned  Lowenkampf,  his  court- 
martial  and  discharge. 

"Do  you  know  how  I  thought  of  you  coming  back, 
Duke?"  Morning  whispered  afterward. 

"Tell  me." 

"I  always  thought  of  you  coming  back  a  sick  man — 
staring  at  the  ceiling  as  you  used  to — sometimes  talking 
to  me,  sometimes  listening  to  what  I  had  written.  But 
the  main  thought  was  how  I  would  like  to  take  care  of 
you.  I  was  rotten  before.  I  wanted  you  sick,  so  I  could 
show  you  better." 

The  huge  hand  stretched  across  from  cot  to  cot. 

"It  was  afterward — that  all  the  things  you  said  in 
Liaoyang  came  back  to  me  right.  .  .  .  We  were  ly 
ing  in  'Frisco  waiting  for  quarantine,  and  my  stuff  was 
finished  the  second  time,  before  I  read  your  letter  to  me 
and  the  one  to  Noyes — and  the  Ploughman  story.  That 
was  the  first  time  I  really  saw  it  right.  There  was  a 
little  doctor  with  me — Nevin — who  got  it  all  from  the 
first  reading.  At  Liaoyang  we  were  down  too  low 
among  the  fighting  to  get  it.  That  Ploughman  story 
made  my  big  yarn  look  like  a  death-mask  of  the  cam 
paign.  Betty  Berry  got  it  too.  ...  It  was  the  same 
to-night — why,  you  got  those  men,  body  and  soul." 

"I'd  like  to  think  so,  John ;  but  I'm  afraid  you're 


THE    HILL-CABIN  171 

wrong.  It  was  just  a  seed  to-night.  Men  need  to  be  cul 
tivated  every  day  in  a  thousand  ways.  .  .  .  Women 
get  things  quicker;  they  can  listen  better.  .  .  .  The 
last  night  before  Jesus  was  taken  by  the  Roman  soldiers, 
he  told  the  Eleven  that  he  could  be  sure  only  of  them. 
He  knew  that  of  the  multitude  that  heard  him — most 
would  sink  back.  He  counted  on  just  the  Eleven,  and 
built  his  church  on  the  weakest,  upon  the  most  unstable 
— counting  only  on  the  strength  of  the  weakest  link. 
.  .  The  fact  is,  John,  I'm  only  counting  on  you. 
I've  got  to  count  on  you." 

Less  than  five  weeks  had  elapsed,  and  yet  the  worst 
seemed  as  far  back,  in  some  of  Morning's  moments,  as 
the  deck-passage  out  of  China.  He  had  suffered  abomin 
ably.  Fallows  stood  by  night  and  day  at  first.  He 
brought  back  a  certain  quality  from  the  Russian  farm 
that  was  pure  inspiration  to  the  other.  They  spoke 
about  the  Play.  Morning  was  more  than  ever  glad  that 
Markheim  had  refused  it.  They  sat  long  by  the  fire. 
More  happened  than  modern  America  would  believe  off 
hand — for  John  Morning  began  to  learn  to  listen.  Fal 
lows  was  happy.  His  presence  in  the  room  was  like  the 
fire-light.  Twice  more  he  went  across  to  the  Metal 
Workers'  Hall,  and  still  the  New  York  group  would  not 
let  him  go.  The  Socialists  brought  him  their  ideas.  He 
was  in  the  heart  of  threatening  upheavals.  He  reiterated 
that  they  must  be  united  in  one  thing  first ;  they  must 
have  faith  in  one  another.  They  must  not  answer  greed 
with  greed.  They  must  be  sure  of  themselves ;  they 
must  have  a  pure  voice ;  they  must  know  first  what  was 
wanted,  and  follow  the  vision.  .  .  .  Duke  Fallows 
knew  that  it  was  all  the  matter  of  a  leader.  .  .  .  He 
told  them  of  the  men  and  women  in  Russia  who  have  put 
off  self.  Finally  Duke  appeared  to  see  that  his  work  was 
done,  and  he  retired  from  them. 

"It  is  delicate  business,"  he  said  to  Morning.  "There's 


172  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

fine  stuff  in  the  crowd — then  there's  the  rest.  If  1  should 
show  common  just  once — all  my  work  would  be  spoiled, 
and  even  the  blessed  few  would  forget  the  punch  of  my 
little  story.  They  think  I've  gone  on  west." 

Still  he  didn't  leave  the  cabin  on  the  hill. 

It  was  only  when  Morning  undertook  to  touch  upon 
the  love  story — that  Fallows  looked  away.  .  .  . 
Morning  tried  to  comprehend  this.  Something  had  hap 
pened.  The  big  man  who  had  stared  at  so  many  ceilings 
of  Asia,  breaking  out  from  time  to  time  in  strange  ut 
terances  all  colored  with  desire ;  the  man  who  had  met 
his  Eve,  and  talked  of  being  controlled  by  her  even 
after  death — shuddered  now  at  the  mention  of  Betty 
Berry.  .  .  .  Morning  even  had  a  suspicion  at  last 
that  the  other  construed  a  relation  between  the  woman's 
influence  and  the  excess  of  alcohol.  These  moments  dis 
mayed  him. 

There  is  a  dark  spot  in  every  man's  radiance — and 
this  was  the  Californian's,  Morning  concluded.  In  the 
transformation  which  the  journey  to  Russia  had  effected, 
his  particular  weakness  seemed  hardened  into  a  crust  of 
exceptional  austerity.  The  only  women  he  ever  spoke 
of  in  the  remotest  personal  fashion  belonged  to  the  peas 
ant  family  of  the  Ploughman.  His  audiences  were  un 
mixed  by  his  own  arrangement.  In  tearing  out  his  cen 
tral  weakness,  a  certain  madness  on  the  subject  had 
rushed  in,  a  hatred  that  knew  no  quarter,  and  a  zeal  in 
denial  that  only  one  who  has  touched  the  rim  of  ruin 
can  know. 

On  the  last  night  of  February  they  talked  and  read 
late.  The  reading  was  from  Saint  Paul  in  the  different 
letters.  Fallows  seemed  impassioned  with  the  figure. 

"I  understand  him,"  he  said. 

"He  was  afraid  of  women.  Sometimes  he  seems 
to  hate  women,"  Morning  remarked.  Certain  lines  of 
Paul's  on  the  subject  had  broken  the  perfection  of  the 
message  for  him. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  173 

A  strange  look  came  to  Fallows.  The  finger  that 
was  turning  a  page  drew  in  with  the  others,  and  the 
hand  that  rested  upon  the  book  was  clenched.  .  .  . 
"Paul  knew  women,"  he  muttered. 

"You  think  before  he  took  that  road  to  Damascus — • 
he  knew  women?" 

"Yes " 

"Even  the  Paul  who  stood  by  holding  the  garments 
of  the  stoners  of  Stephen?" 

"He  was  a  boy  then.   He  learned  afterward,  I  think." 

"He  couldn't  have  known  the  saints  among  them," 
said  Morning,  who  was  smiling  in  his  heart. 

"Perhaps  some  saint  among  them  was  the  one  who 
made  him  afraid.  You  know  women  won't  have  men 
going  alone — not  even  the  saints  among  women.  .  .  . 
There  may  have  been  one  who  refused  to  be  dimmed 
altogether  even  by  that  great  light." 

"But  he  went  alone " 

"In  that  way  she  wouldn't  be  the  Thorn,"  Fallows 
said  slowly.  "She  would  be  greater  power  for  him. 
Yes,  Saint  Paul  went  alone.  We  wouldn't  be  reading 
him  to-night — had  he  turned  back  to  her." 

That  hurt.  Morning  was  no  longer  smiling  within. 
"I  didn't  learn  women — even  as  a  boy,"  he  said. 

Fallows  was  unable  to  speak.  He  had  never  loved 
Morning  as  at  this  moment.  He  was  tender  enough  to 
catch  the  strange  pathos  of  it,  which  the  younger  man 
could  not  feel. 

"You're  a  natural  drunkard,  John,"  he  said  presently. 
"You  are  by  nature  ambitious,  as  it  is  intimated  Caesar 
was ;  but  you  are  naturally  a  monk,  too.  I  say  it  with 
awe." 

"You  are  wrong"  Morning  said  with  strength. 
"When  this  woman  came  into  the  room  at  the  Armory 
that  first  day — it  was  as  if  she  brought  with  her  the  bet 
ter  part  of  myself " 

"You  said  that  same  before.     You  were  sick.     You 


i74  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

were  torn  by  exhaustion  and  by  that  letter  of  mine  about 
Reever  Kennard.  It  was  the  peace  and  mystery  a  woman 
always  brings  to  a  sick  man.  .  .  .  Your  woman  is 
your  genius,  John.  Any  rival  will  stifle  and  defame  it. 
It's  the  woman  in  a  man  that  makes  him  a  prophet  or  a 
great  artist.  Your  ego  is  masculine ;  your  soul  is  femi 
nine.  When  you  learn  to  keep  the  ego  out  of  the  brain, 
and  use  the  soul,  you  will  become  an  instrument,  more 
or  less  perfect,  for  eternal  utterances.  When  you  achieve 
the  union  of  the  man  and  woman  in  you — that  will  be 
your  illumination.  You  will  have  emerged  into  the 
larger  consciousness.  You  are  not  so  far  as  you  think 
from  that  high  noon-light.  If  you  should  take  a  woman 
in  the  human  way,  you  will  not  achieve  in  this  life  the 
higher  marriage,  of  which  the  union  of  two  is  but  a  sym 
bol.  That  would  be  turning  back,  with  the  spiritual 
glory  in  your  eyes — back  to  the  shadow  of  flesh." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  Morning  asked  coldly. 

"Because  of  the  invisible  restraints  that  have  kept 
you  from  women  so  far.  ...  I  believe  you  are  pre 
pared  to  tell  men  something  about  the  devils  of  drink  and 
ambition — having  met  them?" 

"It  is  possible." 

"I  speak  with  the  same  authority." 

Morning  did  not  accept  this  authority,  but  was  long 
disturbed  after  the  light  was  out.  .  .  .  Her  ship  had 
been  six  days  at  sea. 

They  opened  the  door  wide  to  the  first  morning  of 
March.  Snow  was  upon  the  hill,  but  there  was  a  prom 
ise  in  the  air,  even  in  the  sharpness  of  it.  The  wind 
came  in,  searched  among  the  papers  of  the  table,  dis 
ordered  the  draughts  of  the  chimney,  filling  the  room 
with  a  faint  flavor  of  wood-smoke,  that  perfect  incense. 
They  stood  there,  testing  the  day,  and  each  was  think 
ing  of  the  things  of  the  night  before.  Fallows  said: 

"John,  you  didn't  build  this  cabin  with  the  idea  of  a 
woman  coming?" 


THE    HILL-CABIN  175 

"No ;  it  was  built  before  I  found  her  the  second  time. 
It  was  my  escape  from  Boabdil.  .  .  .  But  I  thought 
of  her  coming,  many  times  afterward — just  as  I  thought 
of  you  coming  back  to  stare  at  the  rafters " 

Fallows  looked  down  intently  at  him  for  a  moment, 
and  said: 

"John,  you've  got  about  all  your  equipment  now. 
You  can't  stand  much  more  tearing  down.  My  road  is 
not  for  you.  You  were  given  balance  against  that. 
Don't  venture  into  what  is  alien  ground  for  you.  You 
will  get  back  your  health.  Even  the  wound  will  heal. 
Then  will  come  to  you  those  gracious  ideals  of  single 
ness,  plainness  of  house  and  fare,  of  purity  and  solitude 
and  the  integration  of  the  greater  dimension  of  force. 
.  .  .  You  are  through  looking — you  must  listen  now. 
The  blessedness  you  told  me  of  this  last  summer  was 
but  a  breath  of  what  you  will  get.  .  .  . 

"You  are  a  natural  monk.  If  you  were  in  a  monas 
tery,  the  laws  restraining  you  would  be  gross  and  mate 
rial,  compared  with  those  bonds  which  nature  has  put 
upon  you.  The  cowl,  the  cell,  and  the  solitude  are  but 
symbols  again  of  the  inner  monasticism  a  few  rare  souls 
have  known.  You  need  no  exterior  bonds,  vows,  nor 
threatenings — no  walls,  no  brandishing  threats  of  damna 
tion.  But,  if  you  should  betray  the  invisible  restraints 
that  have  held  you  for  so  many  years,  the  sin  would 
be  far  deadlier  than  breaking  any  vows  made  to  a  church 
or  to  an  order.  Vows  are  for  half-men,  John ;  vows  are 
but  the  crutches  of  an  unfinished  integrity." 


II 

ON  the  morning  of  the  Third,  at  ten,  her  call  came  to 
him.    Shortly  after  twelve  he  was  across  the  river 
and  far  uptown  in  the  hallway  of  an  apartment-house. 
Even  as  he  spoke  her  name,  his  was  called  from  the  head 


176  DOWN   AMONG   MEN 

of  the  stairs.  He  always  remembered  the  intonation. 
.  .  .  A  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate.  The  'cello  was 
there.  She  left  the  hall-door  of  the  room  open,  but  they 
heard  voices,  and  it  was  draughty.  .  .  .  She  went  to 
close  it  and  returned  to  Morning,  who  was  still  standing. 

"What  is  the  matter?    You  are  not  well,"  she  said. 

.  .  .  It  was  hard  for  him  to  realize  that  this  was 
only  the  third  time  he  had  seen  her.  He  was  trying  to 
adjust  her  in  the  other  meetings  with  this — the  angel 
who  had  come  helping  to  the  Armory ;  the  concert  Betty 
Berry,  her  nature  flung  wide  to  expression,  bringing  her 
gift  with  love  to  her  people.  The  Armory  was  one ; 
but  the  Betty  Berry  of  the  concert-night  was  many :  she 
who  had  come  forth  from  the  stage  to  his  arms  (and 
that  was  the  kiss  of  all  time)  ;  the  listening  Betty  Berry 
in  the  dimness  of  the  Pullman  car;  holding  fast  to  his 
hand  as  a  child  might,  while  they  watched  the  dawn 
of  morning  together ;  the  Betty  Berry  who  had  led  him 
to  her  berth  on  the  ship — that  kiss  and  this.  .  .  . 

The  room  had  disordered  him  at  the  first  moment.  It 
was  so  particularly  a  New  York  apartment  room.  But 
the  'cello  helped  it;  the  grate-fire  was  good,  and  after 
she  had  shut  the  door — there  was  something  eternal  about 
the  sweetness  of  that — it  was  quite  the  place  for  them 
to  be. 

He  was  animate  with  emotions — and  yet  they  were 
defined,  sharp,  of  their  own  natures,  no  soft  overflow 
of  sentiment,  each  with  a  fineness  of  its  own,  like  breaths 
of  forest  and  sea  and  meadow  lands.  These  were  great 
things  which  came  to  him;  but  they  were  not  passions. 
.  .  .  He  saw  her  with  fear,  too.  Simply  being 
here,  had  the  impressiveness  of  a  miracle.  It  was  less 
that  he  did  not  deserve  to  be  with  her,  than  that  the 
world  he  knew  was  hardly  the  place  for  such  blessedness. 
He  was  listening  to  her,  in  gladness  and  humility : 

"...  I  asked  myself  again  and  again  after  you 
were  gone,  'Is  it  a  dream?'  ...  I  moved  about  the 


THE    HILL-CABIN  177 

decks  waiting  for  the  night,  as  one  in  a  deep  dream. 

.  .  You  were  gone  so  quickly  after  that  voice.  Oh, 
I  was  all  right.  I  was  full  of  you.  It  would  have  seemed 
sacrilege  to  ask  for  you  again.  .  .  .  Yet  I  seemed  to 
expect  you  with  every  knock  or  step  or  bell.  They  asked 
me  to  play  on  shipboard,  and  I  could  hardly  believe  you 
\vere  not  among  those  who  listened.  .  .  .  That  first 
night  at  sea,  the  moon  was  under  a  hazy  mass.  I  don't 
know  why  I  speak  of  it,  but  I  remember  how  I  stood 
watching  it — perhaps  hours — and  out  of  it  all  I  only 
realized  at  last  that  my  hands  were  so  small  for  the 
things  I  wanted  to  do  for  you,  and  for  everybody." 

That  was  the  quality  of  her — as  if  between  every 
sentence,  hours  of  exterior  influences  had  intervened. 
.  He  began  to  realize  that  Betty  Berry  never  ex 
plained.  All  that  afternoon,  in  different  ways,  his  com 
prehension  augmented  on  how  fine  a  thing  this  is.  She 
was  glad  always  to  abide  by  wrhat  she  said  or  did.  Even 
on  that  night,  when  she  came  from  her  playing  to  the 
wings  where  he  stood,  came  to  his  arms,  while  the  peo 
ple  praised  her — she  never  made  light  of  that  accept 
ance.  Many  would  have  diminished  it,  by  saying  that 
they  were  not  accountable  in  the  excitement  and  enthu 
siasm  of  a  sympathetic  audience.  It  was  so  to-day  when 
the  door  was  closed.  It  seemed  to  Morning  as  if  human 
adults  should  be  as  fine  as  this — above  all  guile  and  fear. 

He  was  in  a  risen  world  that  afternoon.  Often  he 
wished  he  could  make  the  world  see  her  as  he  did.  But 
that  was  the  literary  habit,  and  a  tribute  to  her.  Cer 
tainly  it  was  not  for  the  writing.  He  was  clay  beside 
her,  but  happy  to  be  clay.  .  .  .  She  did  not  know  it, 
he  thought,  but  she  was  free. 

That  was  his  thought  of  the  day.  Betty  Berry  was 
free.  The  door  of  the  cage  was  open  for  her.  She  did 
not  have  to  stay,  but  she  did  stay  for  love  of  the  weaker- 
winged. 

"Will  all  our  meetings  be  so  different  and  lovely?" 


178  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

she  asked  in  the  early  dusk.  "Please  tell  me  about  your 
self  very  long  ago — the  little  boy,  before  he  went  away." 

It  was  queer  for  her  to  ask  that.  He  had  expected 
her  to  inquire  at  once  about  the  three  months  since  their 
parting  in  Baltimore.  He  had  determined  to  tell  if  she 
asked,  but  it  was  hard  even  to  think  of  his  descents,  with 
her  sitting  by  the  fire  so  near.  Such  things  seemed  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him  now — especially  when  he 
was  with  her.  They  were  like  old  and  vile  garments  cast 
off ;  and  without  relation  to  him,  unless  he  went  back  and 
put  them  on  again.  Little  matters  like  Charley  and  his 
sister  had  a  relation,  for  they  were  without  taint.  His 
thoughts  to-day  were  thoughts  of  doing  well  for  men,  as 
in  fine  moments  with  Duke  Fallows — of  going  out  with 
her  into  the  world  to  help — of  writing  and  giving,  of 
laughing  and  lifting.  ...  It  was  surprising  how 
he  remembered  the  very  long  ago  days — the  silent,  solid, 
steadily-resisting  little  chap.  Many  things  came  back, 
and  with  a  clearness  that  he  had  not  known  for  years. 
The  very  palms  of  her  hands  were  upturned  in  her 
listening ;  it  seemed  as  if  the  valves  of  her  heart  must  be 
open. 

"I  can  see  him — the  dear  little  boy " 

He  laughed  at  her  tenderness.  .  .  .  They  went 
out  late  to  dinner;  and  by  the  time  he  had  walked  back 
to  the  house  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  leave,  if  he 
caught  the  last  car  to  Hackensack.  Duke  Fallows  would 
be  expecting  him  at  the  cabin.  .  .  . 

It  came  to  him  suddenly,  and  with  a  new  force,  on 
the  ferry,  that  he  had  once  wished  she  were  pretty.  He 
suffered  for  it  again.  He  could  never  recall  her  face 
exactly.  She  came  to  him  in  countless  ways — with  poise 
for  his  restlessness,  with  faith  and  stamina  that  made 
all  his  former  endurings  common — but  never  in  fixed 
feature.  It  was  the  same  with  her  sayings.  He  remem 
bered  the  spirit  and  the  lustre  of  them,  but  never  the 
words.  .  .  .  She  was  a  saint  moving  unobserved 


THE    HILL-CABIN  179 

about  the  world,  playing — adrift  on  the  world,  and  so 
pure. 

He  realized  also  that  he  had  spoken  of  Betty  Berry 
for  the  last  time  to  Duke  Fallows.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  his  mind  now  that  Fallows  had  replaced  his  old  weak 
ness  with  what  might  be  called,  in  kindness — fanaticism. 
.  .  .  The  thought  was  unspeakable  that  Betty  Berry 
could  spoil  his  work  in  the  world — he,  John  Morning, 
a  living  hatch  of  scars  from  his  errors  .  .  .  and 
so  arrogant  and  imperious  he  had  been  in  evil-doing! 
This  trend  made  him  think  of  her  first  words  to-day: 
"You  are  not  well."  It  was  true  that  he  had  been  as 
tonished  often  of  late  by  a  series  of  physical  disturb 
ances,  so  much  so  that  he  had  begun  to  ask  him 
self,  in  his  detached  fashion,  what  would  come  next. 
He  could  not  accept  Fallows'  promise  that  he  would 
get  altogether  right  in  health  again.  He  was  certainly 
not  so  good  as  he  had  been.  These  things  made  him 
ashamed. 

Now  that  he  was  away  from  her,  the  sense  obtained 
that  he  had  not  been  square  in  withholding  the  facts 
of  the  wastrel  period.  It  didn't  seem  quite  the  same 
now,  as  when  she  was  sitting  opposite.  He  would  have 
to  tell  her  some  time,  and  of  that  certain  mental  treach 
ery  to  her,  and  of  the  wound,  too.  .  .  .  He  saw 
the  light  of  the  hill  cabin.  A  touch  of  the  old  irritation 
of  Liaoyang  had  recurred  of  late.  Morning  could  mas 
ter  it  better  now.  Still  so  many  things  that  Fallows  had 
said  in  Asia  had  come  true.  Climbing  up  the  hill,  he 
laughed  uneasily  at  the  idea  of  his  being  temperament 
ally  a  monk.  .  .  .  He  had  not  strayed  much  among 
women ;  he  had  been  too  busy.  Now  he  had  met  his 
own.  He  would  go  to  her  to-morrow.  His  love  for  her 
was  the  one  right  thing  in  the  world.  Fallows  nor  the 
world  could  alter  that.  .  .  . 

The  resistance  which  these  thoughts  had  built  in  his 
mind  was  all  smoothed  away  by  the  spontaneous  affec~ 


180  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

tion  of  the  greeting.  They  sat  down  together  before 
the  fire,  but  neither  spoke  of  the  woman  who  had  come 
between, 

12 

ON  the  way  to  Betty  Berry  the  second  day,  Morn 
ing  could  not  quite  hold  the  altitude  of  yesterday. 
There  was  much  of  the  boy  left  in  the  manner  of  his  love 
for  her.  The  woman  that  the  world  saw,  and  which  he  savr 
with  physical  eyes,  was  only  one  of  her  mysteries.  The 
important  thing  was  that  he  saw  her  really,  and  as  she 
was  not  seen  by  another.  .  .  .  They  had  been  to 
gether  an  hour  when  this  was  said: 

"There  comes  a  time — a  certain  day — when  a  little 
girl  realizes  what  beauty  is,  and  something  of  what  it 
means  in  the  world.  That  day  came  to  me  and  it  was 
hard.  I  fought  it  out  all  at  once.  I  was  not  exactly  sure 
what  I  wanted,  but  I  knew  that  beauty  could  never  help 
me  in  any  way.  I  learned  to  play  better  when  I  realized 
this  fully.  I  have  said  to  myself  a  million  times,  'Ex 
pect  nothing.  No  one  will  love  you.  You  must  do  with 
out  that,'  I  believed  it  firmly.  ...  So  you  see  when 
I  went  back  to  the  Armory  that  next  morning  I  had 
something  to  fall  back  upon.  ...  I  would  not  have 
thought  about  it  except  you  made  me  forget — that  after 
noon.  Why,  I  forget  it  now  when  you  come;  but  when 
you  go,  I  force  myself  to  remember " 

"Why  do  you  do  that?" 

She  was  looking  into  the  fire.  The  day  was  stormy, 
and  they  were  glad  to  be  kept  in. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  he  repeated. 

"Because  I  can't  feel  quite  at  rest  about  our  being 
together  always.  It  seems  too  wonderful.  You  must 
understand — it's  only  because  it  is  so  dear  a  thing " 

She  had  spoken  hastily,  seeing  the  fear  and  rebellion 
in  his  eyes. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  181 

"Betty  Berry.  .  .  .  We're  not  afraid  of  being, 
poor.  Why  not  go  out  and  get  married  to-day — now?" 

Her  hand  went  out  to  him. 

"That  wouldn't  be  fine  in  us,"  she  said  intensely.  "I 
would  feel  that  we  couldn't  be  trusted — if  we  did  any 
thing  like  that.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  would  never  keep  us 
together — that  is  not  the  great  thing.  And  to-day — 
what  a  gray  day  and  bleak.  We  shall  know  if  that  day 
comes.  It  will  be  one  such  as  the  butterfly  chooses  for 
her  emerging.  It  must  not  be  planned.  Such  a  day 
comes  of  itself.  .  .  .  Why,  it  would  be  like  seizing 
something  precious  from  another's  hand — before  it  is 
offered— 

"And  you  think  you  are  not  beautiful?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

He  tried  to  tell  her  how  she  seemed  to  him  when 
they  were  apart — how  differently  and  perfectly  the 
phases  of  her  came. 

"It  makes  me  silent,"  he  went  on.  "I  try  to  tell  just 
where  it  is.  And  sometimes  when  I  am  away — I  wonder 
what  is  so  changed  and  cleansed  and  buoyant  in  my 
heart — and  then  I  know  it  is  you — sustaining." 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  belong  to  me — what  you  say," 
she  answered.  "I  don't  dare  to  think  of  it  as  mine. 
.  .  .  Please  don't  think  of  me  as  above  other  women. 
I  am  not  apart  nor  above.  I  am  just  Betty  Berry,  who 
comes  and  goes  and  plays — dull  in  so  many  ways — as  yet, 
a  little  afraid  to  be  happy.  When  you  tempt  me  as  now 
to  be  happy — it  seems  I  must  go  and  find  someone  very 
miserable  and  do  something  perfect  for  him.  .  .  . 
But,  it  is  true,  I  fear  nothing  so  much  as  that  you  should 
believe  me  more  than  I  am." 

A  little  afterward  she  was  saying  in  her  queer,  un- 
jointed  way,  as  if  she  spoke  only  here  and  there  a  sen 
tence  from  the  thoughts  running  swiftly  through  her 
mind: 

".     .     .     And  once,  (it  was  only  a  few  weeks  after 


1 82  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

the  Armory,  and  I  was  playing  eastward)  I  heard  your 
name  mentioned  among  some  musicians.  They  had  been 
talking  about  your  war,  and  they  had  seen  the  great 
story.  ...  I  couldn't  tell  them  that  I  know  you? 
.  .  .  It  was  known  you  were  in  New  York,  and  one 
of  the  musicians  spoke  of  an  early  Broadway  engage 
ment — of  starting  for  New  York  that  very  night.  It  was 
the  most  common  thing  to  say — but  I  went  to  my  room 
and  cried.  Going  to  New  York — where  you  were.  Can 
you  understand — that  it  didn't  seem  right  for  him,  just 
to  take  a  train  like  that?  And  I  had  to  go  eastward  so 
slowly.  For  a  while  after  that,  traveling  out  there,  I 
couldn't  hold  you  so  clearly ;  but  as  we  neared  New  York 
— whether  I  wished  it  or  not — I  began  to  feel  you  again, 
to  expect  you  at  every  turning.  Sometimes  as  I  played 
— it  was  uncanny,  the  sense  that  came  to  me,  that  you 
were  in  the  audience,  and  that  we  were  working  to 
gether.  .  .  .  And  then  you  came." 

Her  picture  changed  now.  Morning  grew  restless. 
It  was  almost  as  if  there  were  a  suggestion  from  Duke 
Fallows  in  her  sentences: 

"I  thought  of  you  always  as  alone.  .  .  .  You 
have  gone  so  many  ways  alone.  Perhaps  the  thought 
came  from  your  work.  I  never  could  read  the  places 
where  you  suffered  so — but  I  mean  from  the  tone  and 
theme  of  it.  You  were  down  among  the  terrors  and 
miseries — but  always  alone.  .  .  .  You  will  go  back 
to  them — alone,  but  carrying  calmness  and  cheer.  You 
will  be  different.  .  .  .  It's  hard  for  me  to  say,  but 
if  we  should  clutch  at  something  for  ourselves — greedily 
because  we  want  something  now — and  you  should  not  be 
able  to  do  your  work  so  well  because  of  me — I  think — 
I  think  I  should  never  cease  to  suffer." 

A  dozen  things  to  say  had  risen  with  hostility  in  his 
mind  to  check  this  faltering  expression,  the  purport  of 
which  he  knew  so  well  in  its  every  aspect.  He  hated  the 
thought  of  others  seeing  his  future  and  not  considering 


THE   HILL-CABIN  183 

him.  He  hated  the  fear  that  came  to  him.  There  had 
been  fruits  to  all  that  Fallows  had  said  before.  He  had 
plucked  them  afterward.  And  now  Betty  Berry  was  one 
with  Fallows  in  this  hideous  and  solitary  conception  of 
him.  And  there  she  sat,  lovely  and  actual — the  very 
essence  of  all  the  good  that  he  might  do.  He  was  so 
tired  of  what  she  meant ;  and  it  was  all  so  huge  and  un 
breakable,  that  he  grew  calm  before  he  spoke,  from  the 
very  inexorability  of  it. 

'There  is  no  place  for  me  to  go — that  you  could  not 
go  with  me.  Every  one  seems  to  see  great  service  for 
me,  but  I  see  it  with  you.  Surely  we  could  go  together 
to  people  who  suffer.  ...  I  have  been  much  alone, 
but  I  spent  most  of  the  time  serving  myself.  I  have 
slaved  for  myself.  If  Duke  Fallows  had  left  me  alone, 
I  should  have  been  greedy  and  ambitious  and  common. 
I  see  you  now  identified  with  all  the  good  of  the  future. 
You  came  bringing  the  good  with  you  to  the  Armory 
that  day,  but  I  was  so  clouded  with  hatred  and  self- 
serving,  that  I  really  didn't  know  it  until  afterward. 
.  .  .  All  the  dreams  of  being  real  and  fine,  of  doing 
good  in  work,  and  with  hands  and  thoughts,  of  some 
time  really  being  a  good  man  who  knows  no  happiness 
but  service  for  others — that  means  you — you !  You  must 
come  with  me.  We  will  be  good  together.  We  will  serve 
together.  Everybody  will  be  better  for  us.  We 
will  do  it  because  we  love  so  much — and  can't  help 
it——" 

"Oh,  don't  say  any  more — please — please!  It  is  too 
much  for  me.  Go  away — won't  you?" 

She  had  risen  and  clung  to  him,  her  face  imploring. 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  go  away?"  he  said. 

"Yes — I  have  prayed  for  one  to  come  saying  such 
things — of  two  going  forth  to  help — prayed  without 
faith.  ...  I  cannot  bear  another  word  to  be 
said  to-day.  ...  I  want  to  sit  here  and  live 
with  it " 


1 84  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

He  was  bewildered.  He  bent  to  kiss  her  brow — but 
refrained.  .  .  .  Her  face  shone;  her  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears.  .  .  .  He  was  in  the  street  trying  to  recall 
what  he  had  said. 

13 

HE  did  not  cross  the  river,  but  wandered  about  the 
city.  .  .  .  She  had  starved  her  heart  always, 
put  away  the  idea  of  a  lover,  and  sought  to  carry  out  her 
dreams  of  service  alone.  Then  he  had  come.  In  the 
midst  of  mental  tossing  and  disorder  to-day,  he  had 
stumbled  upon  an  expression  of  her  highest  idea  of 
earth-life:  for  man  and  woman  to  serve  together — God 
loving  the  world  through  their  everyday  lives.  .  .  . 
And  she  had  been  unable  to  bear  him  longer  near  her. 
It  was  the  same  with  her  heart,  as  with  one  who  has 
starved  the  body,  and  must  begin  with  morsels. 

He  was  in  the  hotel  writing-room — filling  pages  to 
her.  He  did  not  mean  to  send  the  pages.  It  was  to 
pass  the  time  until  evening.  He  lacked  even  the  begin 
nings  of  strength  to  stay  away  from  her  until  to-morrow. 
He  would  have  telephoned,  but  she  had  not  given  him 
the  number,  or  the  name  of  the  woman  who  kept  the 
house.  The  writing  held  his  thoughts  from  the  mo 
mentarily  recurring  impulse  to  go  back.  The  city  was 
just  a  vibration.  Moments  of  the  writing  brought  her 
magically  near.  In  spite  of  her  prayer  for  him  not  to, 
his  whole  nature  idealized  her  now.  His  mind  was 
swept  again  and  again  with  gusts  of  her  attraction. 
Thoughts  of  hers  came  to  him  almost  stinging  with 
reality  .  .  .  and  to  see  her  again — to  see  her  again. 
Once  in  the  intensity  of  his  outpouring,  he  halted  as  if 
she  had  called — as  if  she  had  called  to  him  to  come 
up  to  her  out  of  the  hollows  and  the  vagueness  of 
light. 

It  was  nightfall.     He  gave  way  suddenly — to  that 


THE    HILL-CABIN  185 

double-crossing  of  temptation  which  forces  upon  the 
tempted  one  the  conviction  that  what  he  desires  is  the 
right  thing.  .  .  .  He  would  be  a  fool  not  to  go.  She 
would  expect  him.  .  .  .  He  arose  and  set  out  for 
her  house. 

But  as  he  neared  the  corner  something  within  felt 
itself  betrayed. 

"And  so  I  cannot  be  content  with  her  happiness,"  he 
thought.  "I  cannot  be  content  with  the  little  mysteries 
that  make  her  the  one  Betty  Berry.  I  am  not  brave 
enough  to  be  happy  alone — as  she  is.  I  must  have  the 
woman.  .  .  ." 

He  was  hot  with  the  shame  of  it.  He  saw  her 
bountifulness ;  her  capacity  to  wait.  Clearly  he  saw  that 
all  these  complications  and  conflicts  of  his  own  mind 
were  not  indications  of  a  large  nature,  but  the  failures 
of  one  unfinished.  She  did  not  torture  herself  with 
thoughts ;  she  obeyed  a  heart  unerringly  true  and  real. 
She  shone  as  never  before ;  fearless,  yet  with  splendid 
zeal  for  giving ;  free  to  the  sky,  yet  eager  to  linger  low 
and  tenderly  where  her  heart  was  in  harmony ;  a  stranger 
to  all,  save  one  or  two  in  the  world,  pitilessly  hungry 
to  be  known,  and  yet  asking  so  little.  .  .  .  Com 
pared  with  her,  he  saw  himself  as  a  littered  house,  wind 
blowing  through  broken  windows. 

.  .  .  That  night,  sitting  with  Duke  Fallows  be 
fore  the  fire,  brooding  on  his  own  furious  desires,  he 
thought  of  the  other  John  Morning  who  had  brooded 
over  the  story  of  Liaoyang  in  so  many  rooms  with  the 
same  companion.  All  that  former  brooding  had  only 
forced  the  world  to  a  show-down.  He  knew,  forever, 
how  pitifully  little  the  world  can  give.  ...  A  cabin 
on  the  hill  and  a  name  that  meant  a  call  in  the  next 
war.  .  .  . 

The  face  of  the  other  cooled  and  stilled  him.  Duke 
was  troubled ;  Duke,  who  wasn't  afraid  of  kings  or 
armies  or  anything  that  the  world  might  do  ;  who  didn't 


1 86  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

seem  even  afraid  now  of  the  old  Eve  violence,  whoever 
she  was — was  afraid  to  speak  of  Betty  Berry  to  his  best 
friend.  .  .  .  Morning  wondered  at  this.  Had  Duke 
given  up — or  was  he  afraid  of  mixing  things  more  if  he 
expressed  himself?  The  fire-lit  face  was  tense.  One 
after  another  of  the  man's  splendid  moments  and  per 
formances  ran  through  Morning's  mind — the  envelop 
ing  compassion — in  Tokyo,  Liaoyang,  in  the  grain,  in  the 
ploughed  lands — the  Lowenkampf  friend,  the  friend  of 
the  peasant  house,  the  friend  of  men  in  Metal  Workers' 
Hall,  his  own  friend  in  a  score  of  places  and  ways — the 
man's  consummate  art  in  friendliness.  .  .  . 

"Duke,  there's  a  lot  to  think  about  in  just  plain  living, 
isn't  there?" 

The  other  started.  "Hello,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  think 
you  were  in  my  world." 

Betty  Berry  was  waiting  at  the  stairs  the  next 
morning. 

"Did  you  get  my  letter?"  she  whispered,  when  the 
door  had  swung  to. 

"No.     .     .     .     Mailed  last  night?" 

"Yes." 

"I  left  the  cabin  two  hours  before  the  mail.  It's 
rural  delivery,  you  know.  Jethro  reaches  my  box  late  in 
the  forenoon " 

"I  wrote  it  about  dark,  but  didn't  mail  it  until  later. 
I  thought  you  would  come " 

He  told  her  how  he  had  written,  how  he  had  come 
to  her  house,  and  turned  away.  They  were  very  happy. 

"To  think  that  you  came  so  far.  I  couldn't  sit  still, 
I  was  so  expectant  at  that  very  time.  .  .  .  But  it 
was  good  for  us " 

"I  understood  after  a  while." 

"Of  course,  you  understood.  ...  I  was — oh,  so 
happy  yesterday.  Yet,  aren't  we  strange?  Before  it 
was  night,  I  wanted  you  to  come  back.  ...  I 


THE    HILL-CABIN  187 

didn't  go  out  last  night.  I  couldn't  practice.  To-night, 
there  are  some  friends  whom  I  must  see " 

Morning,  in  a  troubled  way,  reckoned  the  hours  until 
evening.  .  .  .  She  was  here  and  there  about  the 
room.  The  place  already  reflected  her.  She  had  never 
been  so  blithe  before.  ...  It  was  an  hour  after 
ward  that  he  picked  up  a  little  tuning-fork  from  the 
dresser,  and  twanged  it  with  his  nail.  She  started  and 
turned  to  him,  her  thumb  pressed  against  her  lips — her 
whole  attitude  that  of  a  frightened  child. 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  tell  you?"  she  said  hesitatingly. 
"It  would  make  many  things  clear.  You  told  me  about 

little  boy — you.     It  was  my  father's " 

He  waited  without  speaking. 

".  .  .  He  used  to  lead  the  singing  in  a  city 
church,"  she  said.  "Always  he  carried  the  tuning-fork. 
He  would  twang  it  upon  a  cup  or  a  piece  of  wood,  and 
put  it  to  his  ear — taking  the  tone.  He  had  a  soft  tenor 
voice.  There  was  never  another  just  like  it,  and  always 
he  was  humming.  ...  I  remember  his  lips  moving 
through  the  long  sermons,  as  he  conned  the  hymn-book, 
one  song  after  another,  tapping  his  fork  upon  a  signet 
ring.  How  I  remember  the  tiny  twanging,  the  light  hum 
of  an  insect  that  came  from  him,  from  song  to  song, 
his  finger  keeping  time,  his  lips  pursed  over  the 
words. 

"He  never  heard  the  preacher.  There  was  no  organ 
allowed,  but  he  led  the  hymns.  He  loved  it.  He  held 
the  time  and  tone  for  the  people — but  never  sang  a  hymn 
twice  the  same,  bringing  in  the  strangest  variations,  but 
always  true,  his  face  flaming  with  pleasure. 

"For  years  and  years  we  lived  alone.  As  a  little  girl, 
I  was  lifted  to  the  stool  to  play  his  accompaniments.  As 
a  young  woman,  I  supported  him,  giving  music  lessons. 
The  neighbors  thought  him  an  invalid.  .  .  .  All  his 
viciousness  was  secret  from  the  world,  but  common  prop 
erty  between  us  from  my  babyhood.  I  pitied  him  and 


1 88  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

covered  him,  fed  him  when  he  might  have  fed  himself, 
waited  upon  him  when  he  might  have  helped  me.  He 
would  hold  my  mind  with  little  devilish  things  and 
thoughts — as  natural  to  him  as  the  tuning-fork.  .  .  . 
He  would  despoil  the  little  stock  of  food  while  I  was 
away,  and  nail  the  windows  down.  My  whole  life,  I 
marveled  at  the  ingenuity  of  his  lies.  He  was  so  little 
and  helpless.  I  never  expected  to  be  treated  as  a  decent 
creature,  from  those  who  had  heard  his  tales.  They 
looked  askance  at  me. 

"For  years,  he  told  me  that  he  was  dying,  and  I  sat 
with  him  in  the  nights,  or  played  or  read  aloud.  If  any 
one  came,  he  lay  white  and  peaceful,  with  a  look  of 
martyrdom.  .  .  .  And  then  at  the  last,  I  fell  asleep 
beside  him.  It  was  late,  but  the  lamp  was  burning.  I 
felt  him  touch  me  before  morning — the  little  old  white 
thing,  his  lips  pursed.  The  tuning-fork  dropped  with  a 
twang  to  the  floor.  I  could  not  believe  I  was  free — but 
cried  and  cried.  At  the  funeral,  when  the  church  people 

spoke  of  'our  .pain-racked  and  martyred  brother' " 

She  did  not  finish. 

Morning  left  her  side.  "I  never  thought  of  a  little 
girl  that  way,"  he  said,  standing  apart.  "Why,  you  have 
given  me  the  spirit  of  her,  Betty.  It  is  what  you  have 
passed  through  that  has  made  you  perfect.  .  .  .  And 
I  was  fighting  for  myself,  and  for  silly  things  all  the 
time- 
But  he  had  not  expressed  what  was  really  in  his 
mind — of  the  beauty  and  tenderness  of  unknown  women 
everywhere,  in  whose  hearts  the  sufferings  of  others  find 
arable  ground.  Surely,  these  women  are  the  grace  of 
the  world.  His  mother  must  have  been  weathered  by 
such  perfect  refinements,  otherwise  he  would  not  have 
been  able  to  appreciate  it  in  Betty  Berry.  It  was  all  too 
dreamy  to  put  into  words  yet,  but  he  felt  it  very  im 
portant  in  his  life — this  that  had  come  to  him  from 
Betty's  story,  and  from  Betty  standing  there — woman's 


THE    HILL-CABIN  189 

power,  her  bounty,  her  mystic  valor,  all  from  the  un 
conscious  high  behavior  of  a  child. 

She  had  given  him  something  that  the  Ploughman 
gave  Duke  Fallows.  He  wanted  to  make  the  child  live 
in  the  world's  thoughts,  as  Duke  was  making  the  Plough 
man  live. 

It  was  these  things  —  common,  beautiful,  passed-by 
things,  that  revealed  to  Morning,  as  he  began  to  be  ready 
—  the  white  flood  of  spirit  that  drives  the  world,  that  is 
pressing  always  against  hearts  that  are  pure. 

He  went  nearer  to  her. 

"Everything  I  think  is  love  for  you,  Betty,"  he  said. 

The  air  was  light  about  her,  and  delicate  as  from 
woodlands. 


THE  horse  and  phaeton  —  both  very  old  —  of  the  rural- 
carrier  could  be  seen  from  the  hill-cabin.  Duke 
Fallows  walked  down  to  the  fence  to  say  "Hello"  to 
jjethro  whom  he  admired.  He  returned  bearing  very 
thoughtfully  a  letter  addressed  to  John  Morning.  It 
was  from  across  the  river  ;  the  name,  street,  and  num 
ber  of  the  sender  were  written  upon  the  envelope. 
.  .  .  Fallows  sat  down  before  the  fire  again,  staring 
at  the  letter.  He  thought  of  the  woman  who  had  writ 
ten  this,  (just  the  few  little  things  that  Morning  had 
said)  and  then  he  thought  of  the  gaunt  peasant  woman 
in  Russia,  the  mate  of  the  Ploughman,  and  of  the  mother 
of  the  Ploughman.  He  thought  of  the  little  boy,  Jan  — 
the  one  little  boy  of  the  six,  that  had  his  heart,  and 
whom  he  longed  for. 

He  thought  of  this  little  boy  on  one  hand-  —  and  the 
world  on  the  other. 

Then  he  thought  of  Morning  again,  and  of  the 
woman. 

He  loved  the  world;  he  loved  the  little  boy.     Some- 


1 90  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

times  it  seemed  to  him  when  he  was  very  happy — that 
he  loved  the  world  and  the  little  boy  with  almost  the 
same  compassion — the  weakness,  fineness,  and  innocence 
of  the  races  of  men  seeming  almost  like  the  child's. 

He  thought  of  John  Morning  differently.  He  had 
loved  him  at  first,  because  he  was  down  and  fighting 
grimly.  He  thought  of  him  of  late  as  an  instrument, 
upon  which  might  be  played  a  message  of  mercy  and 
power  to  all  who  suffered — to  the  world  and  to  the  little 
boy  alike. 

And  now  Fallows  was  afraid  for  the  instrument. 
Many  things  had  maimed  it,  but  this  is  the  way  of  men ; 
and  these  maimings  had  left  their  revelations  from  the 
depths.  Such  may  measure  into  the  equipment  of  a  big 
man,  destined  to  meet  the  many  face  to  face.  Fallows 
saw  this  instrument  in  danger  of  being  taken  over  by  a 
woman — to  be  played  upon  by  colorful  and  earthly  se 
ductions.  No  man  could  grant  more  readily  than  he, 
that  such  interpretations  are  good  for  most  men ;  that 
the  highest  harmony  of  the  average  man  is  the  expres 
sion  of  love  for  his  one  woman  and  his  children.  But 
to  John  Morning,  Fallows  believed  such  felicity  would 
close  for  life  the  great  work  which  he  had  visioned  from 
the  beginning. 

He  did  not  want  lyrical  singing  from  John  Morning, 
he  wanted  prophetic  thunderings. 

He  wanted  this  maimed  young  man  to  rise  up  from 
the  dregs  and  tell  his  story  and  the  large  meaning  of  it. 
He  wanted  him  to  burn  with  a  white  light  before  the 
world.  He  wanted  the  Koupangtse  courage  to  drive  into 
the  hearts  of  men ;  a  pure  reformative  spirit  to  leap  forth 
from  the  capaciousness  where  ambition  had  been ;  he 
wanted  John  Morning  to  ignite  alone.  He  believed  the 
cabin  in  which  he  now  sat  was  built  blindly  from  the 
boy's  standpoint,  but  intelligently  from  the  spirit  of  the 
boy,  to  become  the  place  of  ignition.  He  believed  this 
of  Morning's  to  be  a  celibate  spirit  that  could  be  finally 


THE    HILL-CABIN  191 

maimed  only  by  a  woman.  He  believed  that  Morning 
was  perfecting  a  marvelous  instrument,  one  that  would 
altar  all  society  for  the  better,  if  he  gave  his  heart  to 
the  world. 

Fallows  even  asked  himself  if  he  did  not  have  his 
own  desperate  pursuits  among  women  in  too  close  con 
sideration.  ...  It  would  be  easy  to  withdraw.  So 
often  he  had  faltered  before  the  harder  way,  and  found 
afterward  that  the  easy  one  was  evil.  .  .  .  He  left 
it  this  way:  If  he  could  gain  audience  with  Betty  Berry 
alone  this  evening  he  would  speak ;  if  Morning  were  with 
her,  he  would  find  an  excuse  for  joining  them  and 
quickly  depart.  Last  night  Morning  had  returned  to  the 
cabin  early;  the  night  before  by  the  last  car.  It  was 
less  than  an  even  chance.  .  .  .  Fallows  crossed  the 
river,  thinking,  if  the  woman  were  common  it  would  be 
easy.  The  way  it  turned  out  left  no  doubt  as  to  what 
he  must  do.  Approaching  the  number,  on  the  street 
named  on  the  corner  of  the  envelope,  he  passed  John 
Morning,  head  down  in  contemplation.  He  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  house.  Betty  Berry  appeared,  led  him  to 
a  small  upper  parlor,  and  excused  herself  for  a  moment. 

Fallows  sat  back  and  closed  his  eyes.  He  was  suffer 
ing.  All  his  fancied  hostility  was  gone.  He  saw  a  wom 
an  very  real,  and  to  him  magical ;  he  saw  that  this  was 
bloody  business.  .  .  .  She  came  back,  the  full  ter 
ror  of  him  in  her  eyes.  She  did  not  need  to  be  so  sensi 
tive  to  know  that  he  had  not  come  as  a  cup-bearer. 
.  .  .  He  was  saying  to  himself,  "I  will  not  struggle 
with  her.  .  .  ." 

"Have  I  time  to  tell  my  story?" 

"I  was  going  out.  .  .  .  John  Morning  just  went 
away  because  I  was  to  meet  old  friends.  But,  if  this  is 
so  very  important,  of  course " 

"It  is  about  him." 

"I  think  you  must  tell  your  story." 

Fallows  talked  of  Morning's  work,  of  what  he  had 


1 92  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

first  seen  irom  Luzon,  and  of  the  man  he  found  in  Tokyo. 
He  spoke  of  the  days  and  nights  in  Liaoyang,  as  he  had 
watched  Morning  at  his  work. 

"He's  at  his  best  at  the  type-writer.  When  the  work 
is  really  coming  right  for  him,  he  seems  to  be  used  by  a 
larger,  finer  force  than  he  shows  at  other  times.  .  .  . 
It  is  good  to  talk  to  you,  Miss  Berry.  You  are  a  real 
listener.  You  seem  to  know  what  I  am  to  say  next " 

"Go  on,"  she  said. 

"When  a  man  with  a  developed  power  of  expression 
stops  writing  what  the  world  is  saying,  and  learns  to 
listen  to  that  larger,  finer  force  within  him — indeed, 
when  he  has  a  natural  genius  for  such  listening,  and 
cultivates  a  better  receptivity,  always  a  finer  and  more 
sensitive  surface  for  its  messages — such  a  man  becomes 
in  time  the  medium  between  man  and  the  energy  that 
drives  the  world " 

"Yes " 

"Some  call  this  energy  that  drives  the  world  the 
Holy  Spirit,  and  some  call  it  the  Absolute.  I  call  it 
love  of  God.  A  few  powerful  men  of  every  race  are 
prepared  to  express  it.  These  individuals  come  up  like 
the  others  through  the  dark,  often  through  viler  dark 
ness.  They  suffer  as  others  cannot  dream  of  suffering. 
They  are  put  in  terrible  places — each  of  which  leaves  its 
impress  upon  the  instrument — the  mind.  You  have  read 
part  of  John  Morning's  story.  Perhaps  he  has  told  you 
other  parts.  His  mind  is  furrowed  and  transcribed  with 
terrible  miseries. 

"Until  recently  his  capacity  was  stretched  by  the  fu 
rious  passion  of  ambition.  It  seemed  in  Asia  as  if  he 
couldn't  die,  unexpressed ;  as  if  the  world  couldn't  kill 
him.  You  saw  him  at  the  Armory  just  after  he  had 
passed  through  thirty  days  hard  enough  to  slay  six  men. 
Ambition  held  him  up — and  hate  and  all  the  powers  of 
the  ego. 

"This  is  what  I  want  to  tell  you:  'When  the  love  of 


THE    HILL-CABIN  193 

God  fills  that  furious  capacity  which  ambition  has  made 
ready ;  when  the  love  of  God  floods  over  the  broadened 
surfaces  of  his  mind,  furrowed  and  sensitized  by  suf 
fering,  filling  the  matrix  which  the  dreadful  experiences 
have  marked  so  deeply — John  Morning  will  be  a  wonder 
ful  instrument  of  interpretation  between  God  and  his 
race/ 

"I  can  make  my  story  very  short  for  you,  Miss 
Berry.  Your  listening  makes  it  clearer  than  ever  to  me. 
I  see  what  men  mean  when  they  say  they  can  write  to 
women.  Yes,  I  see  it.  ...  John  Morning  has  made 
ready  his  cup.  It  will  be  filled  with  the  water  of  life — 
to  be  carried  to  men.  But  John  Morning  must  feel  first 
the  torture  of  the  thirst  of  men. 

"Every  misery  he  has  known  has  brought  him  nearer 
to  this  realization ;  days  here  among  the  dregs  of  the 
city ;  days  of  hideous  light  and  shadow ;  days  on  the 
China  Sea,  sitting  with  coolies  crowded  so  they  could  not 
move ;  days  afield,  and  the  perils ;  days  alone  in  his  little 
cabin  on  the  hill ;  sickness,  failures,  hatreds  from  men, 
the  answering  hatred  of  his  fleshly  heart — all  these  have 
knit  him  with  men  and  brought  him  understanding. 

"He  has  been  down  among  men.  Suffering  has 
graven  his  mind  with  the  mysteries  of  the  fallen.  You 
must  have  understanding  to  have  compassion.  In  John 
Morning,  the  love  of  God  will  pass  through  human 
deeps  to  men.  Deep  calls  to  deep.  He  will  meet  the 
lowest  face  to  face.  He  will  bring  to  the  deepest  down 
man  the  only  authority  such  a  man  can  recognize — that 
of  having  been  there  in  the  body.  And  the  thrill  of  ris 
ing  will  be  told.  Those  who  listen  and  read  will  know 
that  he  has  been  there,  and  see  that  he  is  risen.  He  will 
tell  how  the  water  of  life  came  to  him — and  flooded  over 
him,  and  healed  his  miseries  and  his  pains.  The  splendid 
shining  authority  of  it  will  rise  from  his  face  and  from 
his  book. 

"And  men  won't  be  the  same  after  reading  and  lis- 


I94  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

tening;  (nor  women  who  receive  more  quickly  and  pas 
sionately) — women  won't  be  the  same.  Women  will 
see  that  those  who  suffer  most  are  the  real  elect  of  this 
world.  It's  wonderful  to  make  women  listen,  Miss 
Berry,  for  their  children  bring  back  the  story. 

"It  isn't  that  John  Morning  must  turn  to  love  God. 
I  don't  mean  that.  He  must  love  men.  He  must  re 
ceive  the  love  of  God — and  give  it  to  men.  To  be  able 
to  listen  and  to  receive  with  a  trained  instrument  of 
expression,  and  then  to  turn  the  message  to  the  service 
of  men — that's  a  World-Man's  work.  John  Morning  will 
do  it — if  he  loves  humanity  enough.  He's  the  only  liv 
ing  man  I  know  who  has  a  chance.  He  will  achieve 
almost  perfect  instrumentation.  He  will  express  what 
men  need  most  to  know  in  terms  of  art  and  action.  The 
love  of  God  must  have  man  to  manifest  it,  and  that's 
John  Morning's  work — if  he  loves  humanity  enough  to 
make  her  his  bride." 

Fallows  was  conscious  now  of  really  seeing  her. 
She  had  not  risen,  but  seemed  nearer — as  if  the  chair, 
in  which  she  slowly  rocked,  had  crept  nearer  as  he 
talked.  Her  palms  resting  upon  her  knees  were  turned 
upward  toward  him : 

"And  you  think  John  Morning  is  nearly  ready  for 
that  crown  of  Compassion?" 

"Yes " 

"You  think  he  will  receive  the  Compassion — and  give 
it  to  men  in  terms  of  art  and  action?" 

"Yes " 

"You  think  if  he  loves  me — if  he  turns  his  love  to  me, 
as  he  is  doing — he  cannot  receive  that  greater  love  which 
he  must  give  men?" 

"Yes " 

"And  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  woman's  part  to 
turn  him  from  her?" 

"Yes " 

"And  you  came  to  tell  me  this?" 


THE    HILL-CABIN  195 

"Yes." 

"I  think  it  is  true " 

"Oh,  listen — listen "  he  cried,  rising  and  bending 

over  her — "a  good  woman's  part — it  would  be  that!  It 
would  be  something  more — something  greater  than  even 
he  could  ever  do.  .  .  .  What  a  vision  you  have 
given  me !" 

She  stood  before  him,  her  face  half-turned  to  the 
window.  Yet  she  seemed  everywhere  in  the  room — her 
presence  filling  it.  He  could  not  speak  again.  He  turned 
to  go.  Her  words  reached  him  as  he  neared  the  door. 

"Oh,  if  I  only  had  my  little  baby — to  take  away!" 


15 

FALLOWS  stood  forward  on  the  ferry  that  night 
and  considered  the  whole  New  York  episode.  He 
had  done  his  work.  He  had  told  the  Ploughman  story 
five  times.  It  was  just  the  sowing.  He  might  possibly 
come  back  for  the  harvest.  .  .  .  He  had  another 
story  to  tell  now.  Could  he  ever  tell  it  without  break 
ing?  .  .  .  He  had  tortured  his  brain  to  make  things 
clear  for  Morning  and  for  men.  He  realized  that  a  man 
who  implants  a  complete  concept  in  another  intelligence 
and  prevents  it  from  withering  until  roots  are  formed 
and  fruitage  is  assured,  performs  a  miracle,  no  less ;  be 
cause,  if  the  soil  were  ready,  the  concept  would  come  of 
itself.  He  had  driven  his  brain  by  every  torment  to 
make  words  perform  this  miracle  on  a  large  scale. 

And  this  little  listening  creature  he  had  just  left — • 
she  had  taken  his  idea,  finished  it  for  him,  and  involved 
it  in  action.  To  her  it  was  the  Cross.  She  had  carried 
it  to  Golgotha,  and  sunk  upon  it  with  outstretched 
palms.  .  .  .  There  was  an  excellence  about  Betty 
Berry  that  amazed  him,  in  that  it  was  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  He  had  not  called  such  women  to  him,  because 


196  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

such  women  were  not  the  answer  to  his  desires.  He 
realized  with  shame  that  a  man  only  knows  the  women 
who  answer  in  part  the  desires  of  his  life.  Those  who 
had  come  to  him  were  fitted  to  the  plane  of  sensation 
upon  which  he  had  lived  so  many  years.  He  had  con 
demned  all  women  because,  in  the  weariness  of  the 
flesh,  he  had  suddenly  risen  to  perceive  the  falsity  of 
his  affinities  of  the  flesh.  "What  boys  we  are!"  he 
whispered,  "in  war  and  women  and  work — what  boys !" 

Betty  Berry  had  taught  him  a  lesson,  quite  as  enor 
mous  to  his  nature  as  the  Ploughman's.  A  man  who 
thinks  of  women  only  in  sensuousness  encounters  but 
half-women.  He  had  learned  it  late,  but  well,  that  a 
man  in  this  world  may  rise  to  heights  far  above  his 
fellows  in  understanding,  but  that  groups  of  women  are 
waiting  on  all  the  higher  slopes  of  consciousness  for 
their  sons  and  brothers  and  lovers  to  come  up.  They 
pass  their  time  weaving  laurel-leaves  for  the  brows  of 
delayed  valiants.  .  .  . 

Duke  thought  of  the  men  he  had  seen  afield,  the 
gravity  with  which  these  men  did  their  great  fighting 
business,  the  world  talking  about  them.  Then  he  thought 
of  the  little  visionary  in  her  room  accepting  her 
tragedy.  .  .  . 

Even  now,  in  the  hush  and  back-swing  of  the  pendu 
lum,  it  seemed  very  true  what  he  had  said.  She  had 
seen  it.  It  is  dangerous  business  to  venture  to  change 
the  current  of  other  lives ;  no  one  knew  it  better  than 
Fallows.  But  he  considered  Morning.  Morning,  as  it 
were,  had  been  left  on  his  door-step.  Morning  would 
be  alone  now — alone  to  listen  and  receive  his  powers. 
.  .  .  Fallows  looked  up  from  the  black  water  to  the 
far-apart  pickets  of  the  wintry  night.  He  was  going 
home. 

The  cabin  was  lit.  Fallows  climbed  the  hill  wearily. 
There  was  a  certain  sharpness  as  of  treachery  from  his 


THE    HILL-CABIN  197 

night's  work,  but  to  that  larger  region  of  mind,  open 
to  selfishness  and  the  passion  to  serve  men,  peace  had 
come.  He  was  going  home,  first  to  San  Francisco — then 
to  the  Bosks  and  the  little  boy. 

Morning  arose  quickly  at  the  sound  of  the  step  on  the 
hard  ground,  and  opened  the  door  wide.  He  had  been 
reading  her  letter,  which  Fallows  had  left  upon  the 
table.  The  letter  had  been  like  an  added  hour  with  her. 
It  was  full  of  shy  joy,  full  of  their  perfect  accord,  re 
mote  from  the  world — its  road  and  stone-piles  and 
evasions.  .  .  .  Fallows  saw  that  he  looked  white 
and  wasted.  The  red  of  the  firelight  did  not  mislead 
his  eye.  Its  glow  was  not  Morning's  and  did  not  blend 
with  the  pallor. 

"I'm  going  on  to-morrow,  John,"  he  said. 

'"Frisco?" 

"Yes— and  then— 

"You'll  come  back  here?" 

"No,  I'll  keep  on  into  the  west  to  my  cabin " 

"It  would  be  nearer  this  way.  I  planned  to  see  you 
after  "Frisco." 

"I'll  come  back,"  Fallows'  thought  repeated,  "for  the 
harvest." 

"And  so  you  are  going  to  make  the  big  circle  again  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  haven't  finished  this  first  one,  until  you  jreach 
Noyes  and  your  desk  in  the  Western  States." 

"The  next  journey  won't  take  so  long." 

"You've  been  the  good  angel  to  me  again,  Duke. 
It's  quite  a  wonder,  how  you  turn  up  in  disaster  of 
mine.  ...  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  come  to  you — 
but  you  won't  get  down.  You  wouldn't  even  stay  ill." 

"You  won't  get  down  again,  John,  at  least,  in  none  of 
the  ways  you  know  about " 

Both  men  seemed  spent  beyond  words.  .  .  . 
Morning  saw  in  the  other's  departure  the  last  bit  of 
resistance  lifted  from  his  heart's  quest.  Betty  Berry  had 


198  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

come  between  them.  Morning's  conviction  had  never 
faltered  on  the  point  that  Fallows  was  structurally  weak 
on  this  one  matter.  .  .  .  And  so  he  was  going.  All 
that  was  illustrious  in  their  friendship  returned.  They 
needed  few  words,  but  sat  late  before  turning  in.  The 
cabin  cooled  and  freshened.  Each  had  the  thought,  be 
fore  finally  falling  asleep,  that  they  were  at  sea  again. 
.  .  .  And  in  the  morning  the  thing  that  lived  from 
their  parting  was  this,  from  Duke  Fallows : 

"Whatever  you  do,  John — don't  forget  your  own — 
the  deepest  down  man.  He  is  yours — go  after  him — 
get  him !" 

.  .  .  She  was  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  when  he 
called  the  next  morning;  and  he  was  only  half-way  up 
when  he  saw  that  she  had  on  her  hat  and  coat  and 
gloves.  The  day  was  bitter  like  the  others.  He  had 
thought  of  her  fire,  and  the  quiet  of  her  presence.  He 
meant  to  tell  her  all  about  Duke  Fallows  and  the  going. 
It  was  his  thought — that  she  might  find  in  this  (not 
through  words,  but  through  his  sense  of  release  from 
Duke's  antagonism)  a  certain  quickening  toward  their 
actual  life  together.  He  wanted  to  talk  of  bringing  her 
to  the  cabin — at  least,  for  her  to  come  for  a  day. 

"You  will  go  with  me  to  get  the  tickets  and  things. 
I  must  start  west  at  once." 

It  was  quite  dark  in  the  upper  hallway.  Morning 
reached  out  and  turned  her  by  the  elbow,  back  toward 
the  door  of  her  room.  There  in  the  light,  he  looked  into 
her  face.  She  was  calm,  her  eyes  bright.  Whatever 
the  night  had  brought — if  weakness  it  was  mastered,  if 
exaltation  it  was  controlled.  But  she  was  holding  very 
hard.  There  was  a  tightness  about  her  mouth  that  ter 
rified  him.  It  was  not  as  it  had  been  with  them ;  he  was 
not  one  with  her. 

"You  mean  that  you  are  going  away — for  some 
time?" 


THE    HILL-CABIN  199 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  must  not  mind.  We  are 
road  people.  We  have  been  wonderfully  happy.  You 
must  not  look  so  tragic " 

It  wasn't  like  her  at  all.  "We  are  not  road  people," 
he  thought.  .  .  .  "You  must  not  look  so  tragic," — 
that  was  just  like  a  thing  road  people  might  say. 

He  sat  down.  The  weakness  of  his  limbs  held  his 
mind.  It  seemed  to  him,  if  he  could  forget  his  body, 
words  might  come.  At  first  the  thought  of  her  going 
away  was  intolerable,  but  that  had  dwindled.  It  was  the 
change  in  her — the  something  that  had  happened — the 
flippancy  of  her  words.  .  .  .  He  looked  up  suddenly. 
It  seemed  as  if  her  arms  had  been  stretched  toward  him, 
her  face  ineffably  tender.  So  quickly  it  had  happened 
that  he  could  not  be  sure.  He  wanted  this  very  thing  so 
much  that  his  mind  might  have  formed  the  illusion.  He 
let  it  pass.  He  did  not  want  her  to  say  it  was  not  so. 

Words  of  her  letter  came  back  to  him.  Neither  the 
letter  nor  yesterday  had  anything  to  do  with  this  day. 
.  .  .  "You  are  drawing  closer  all  the  time.  I  have 
been  so  happy  to-day  that  I  had  to  write.  You  must 
know  that  I  sent  you  away  because  I  could  not  bear 
more  happiness.  .  .  ." 

Where  was  it?  What  had  happened?  He  was  fev 
ered.  Something  was  destroying  him.  .  .  .  Betty 
Berry  did  not  suffer  for  herself — it  was  with  pity  for 
him.  The  mother  in  her  was  tortured.  It  was  her  own 
life — this  love  of  his  for  her — the  only  child  she  would 
ever  have.  She  had  loved  its  awakenings,  its  diffidences, 
the  faltering  steps  of  its  expression.  The  man  was  not 
hers,  but  his  love  for  her  was  her  very  own.  .  .  . 
She  had  not  thought  of  its  death,  when  Fallows  talked 
the  night  before.  She  had  thought  of  her  giving  up 
for  his  sake,  but  not  of  the  anguish  and  the  slaying  of 
his  love  for  her.  And  this  was  taking  place  now. 

"You  will  let  me  write  to  you?"  he  said,  still  think 
ing  of  the  letter. 


200  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  you  will  write  to  me?" 

She  remembered  now  what  she  had  written.  .  .  . 
The  fullness  of  her  heart  had  gone  into  that.  She  could 
not  write  like  that  again.  Yet  he  was  asking  for  her 
letters,  as  a  child  might  ask  for  a  drink.  .  .  .  She 
could  not  refuse.  It  wasn't  in  nature  to  see  his  face, 
and  refuse.  .  .  .  Surely  if  she  remained  apart  it  was 
all  any  one  could  ask. 

"Yes,  I  will  write  sometimes." 

He  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  his  head  bowed 
slightly,  his  eyes  upon  the  wall.  He  was  ill,  bewildered, 
his  mind  turning  here  and  there  only  to  find  fresh  dis 
tress.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had  not 
told  her  of  his  drinking.  .  .  .  That  must  be  it. 
Some  one  else  had  told  her,  and  she  was  hurt  and 
broken. 

"I  meant  always  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "Only  it 
really  did  not  seem  to  signify  by  the  time  you  came 
back.  And  when  I  was  with  you — oh,  I  seemed  very  far 
from  that.  I  don't  understand  it  now " 

She  did  not  know  what  he  meant ;  did  not  care, 
could  not  ask.  It  was  something  he  clutched — in  the 
disintegration.  .  .  .  He  looked  less  death-like  in  his 
thinking  of  it. 

"It  doesn't  greatly  matter,"  she  said.  "I  have  to  go 
west.  .  .  .  Won't  you  come  with  me  to  get  the 
tickets  ?" 

"I  can't  go  out  into  the  street  yet.  If  there  is 
anything  more  I  have  done — won't  you  let  me 
know?" 

Suddenly  he  realized  her  side,  that  he  was  detaining 
her;  that  it  wasn't  easy  for  her  to  speak.  It  was  not 
his  way  to  impose  his  will  upon  anyone ;  his  natural 
shyness  now  arose,  and  he  fingered  his  hat. 

"Dear  John  Morning — you  haven't  done  anything. 
You  have  made  me  happy.  I  must  go  away  to  my  work 


THE    HILL-CABIN  201 

— and  you,  to  yours.  .  .  .  It  is  hard  for  me,  but  I  see 
it  as  the  way.  I  have  promised  to  write : 

The  words  came  forth  like  birds  escaping — thin, 
evasive,  vain  words.  That  which  she  had  seen  so  clearly 
the  night  before,  (and  which  she  seemed  utterly  to  have 
lost  the  meaning  of)  was  a  lock  upon  every  real  utter 
ance  now.  She  had  not  counted  upon  this  tragedy  of  her 
mother  instinct — this  slaying  of  the  perfect  thing  in  him, 
which  she  had  loved  to  life. 

He  arose,  and  sat  down ;  he  swallowed,  started  to 
speak,  but  could  not.  He  was  like  a  boy — this  man  who 
had  seen  so  much,  just  a  bewildered  boy,  his  suffering 
too  deep  for  words — the  sweetest  part  of  him  to  her, 
dying  before  her  eyes.  And  the  dream  of  their  service 
together,  their  hand-in-hand  going  out  to  the  world, 
their  poverty  and  purity  and  compassion  together — these 
were  lost  jewels.  ...  It  was  all  madness,  the  world 
< — all  madness  and  devilishness.  Beauty  and  virtue  and 
loving  kindness  were  gone,  the  world  turned  insane. 
.  .  .  The  thought  came  to  tell  him  she  was  insane; 
a  better  lie  still,  that  she  was  not  a  pure  woman.  She 
started  to  speak,  but  his  eyes  came  up  to  her.  .  .  . 
She  tried  it  again,  but  his  eyes  came  up  to  her.  He 
fingered  his  hat  boyishly.  The  mother  in  her  breast 
could  not. 

Their  dreadful  night.  The  winter  darkness  was  com 
ing  on  swiftly.  Her  train  was  leaving. 

"But  you  said  you  were  not  going  to  work  for  the 
present.  You  have  been  working  so  hard  all  win 
ter v 

He  had  said  it  all  before. 

"Yes — but  there  is  much  for  me  to  do — days  of  study 
and  practice — and  thinking.  You  will  understand. 
.  .  .  Everything  will  come  clear  and  you  will  under 
stand.  You  see,  to-day — this  isn't  a  day  for  words  with 
us.  ...  One  must  have  one's  own  secret  place. 


202  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

You  must  say  of  me,  'She  suddenly  remembered  some 
thing — and  had  to  go  away.'  .  .  ." 

"  'She  suddenly  remembered  something  and  had  to 
hurry  away,'  "  he  repeated,  trying  to  smile.  "But  she 
will  write  to  me.  I  will  work — work — and  when  you 
let  me,  I  will  come  to  you " 

"Yes " 

He  had  to  leave.  .  .  .  He  kissed  her  again. 
There  was  something  like  death  about  it. 

"If  we  were  only  dead,"  she  said,  "and  were  going 
away  together " 

.  .  .  A  man  stepped  up  to  him,  regarded  him  in 
tently.  Morning  realized  that  he  must  get  alone.  He 
had  been  shaking  his  head  wearily,  and  unseeingly — 
standing  in  the  main  corridor  of  the  station  in  Jersey — 
shaking  his  head.  ...  It  was  full  night  outside. 
He  forgot  that  he  did  not  have  to  recross  the  river — and 
was  on  the  ferry  back  to  New  York  before  he 
remembered.  .  .  . 

He  gained  the  hill  to  his  cabin  long  afterward.  That 
reminded  him  that  Duke  Fallows  had  gone,  too — and 
that  very  morning. 

It  seemed  farther  back  in  his  life  than  Liaoyang. 


16 

BETTY  BERRY'S  journey  was  ten  hours  west  by 
the  limited  trains — straight  to  the  heart  of  her 
one  tried  friend,  Helen  Quiston,  a  city  music  teacher. 
Her  first  thought,  and  the  one  buoy,  was  that  she  would 
be  able  to  tell  everything.  .  .  .  She  could  not  make 
Helen  Quiston  feel  the  pressure  that  his  Guardian 
Spirit  (she  always  thought  of  Duke  Fallows  so)  invoked 
in  that  half-hour  of  his  call,  but  with  a  day  or  a  night 
she  could  make  her  friend  know  what  had  happened,  and 


THE    HILL-CABIN  203 

something  of  the  extent  of  force  which  had  led  to  her 
sacrifice.  Helen  would  tell  her  if  she  were  mad.  All 
through  that  night  she  prayed  that  her  friend  would  call 
her  mad — would  force  her  to  see  that  the  thing  she  had 
done  was  viciously  insane. 

She  was  engulfed.  For  the  first  time,  her  spirit 
failed  to  right  itself  in  any  \vay.  She  was  more  de 
pendent  upon  Helen  Quiston  than  she  had  conceived 
possible,  since  the  little  girl  had  fought  out  the  different 
cruel  presentations  of  the  days,  during  the  early  life  with 
her  father. 

Throughout  the  night  en  route  she  thought  of  the 
letter  she  had  promised  to  write  to  John  Morning.  The 
day  with  him  had  brought  the  letter  from  a  vague  prom 
ise  to  an  immediate  duty  upon  her  reaching  the  studio. 
.  .  .  She  was  to  write  first,  and  at  once.  Already 
she  was  making  trials  in  her  mind,  but  none  would  do. 
He  would  penetrate  every  affectation.  The  wonder  and 
dreadfulness  of  it — was  that  she  must  not  tell  the  truth, 
for  he  would  be  upon  her,  furiously  human,  disavowing 
all  separateness  from  the  race,  as  one  with  a  message 
must  be ;  disavowing  the  last  vestige  of  the  dream  of 
compassion  which  his  Guardian  Spirit  had  pictured. 
.  .  .  She  knew  his  love  for  her.  She  had  seen  it 
suffer.  Would  Helen  Quiston  show  her  that  she  must 
bring  it  back — that  the  Guardian  Spirit  was  evil?  There 
was  a  fixture  about  it,  a  whispering  of  the  negative  deep 
within. 

She  could  not  write  of  the  memories.  Not  the  least 
linger  of  perfume  from  that  night  at  the  theatre  must 
touch  her  communication.  Yet  it  was  the  arch  of  all. 
As  she  knew  her  soul  and  his,  they  had  been  as  pure  as 
children  that  night — even  before  a  word  was  spoken.  It 
had  been  so  natural — such  a  rest  and  joy.  .  .  .  She 
had  learned  well  to  put  love  away,  before  he  came.  From 
the  few  who  approached,  she  had  laughed  and  with 
drawn.  The  world  had  daubed  them.  In  her  heart  to- 


204  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

ward  other  men,  she  was  as  a  consecrated  nun.  And  this 
was  like  her  Lord  who  had  come.  .  .  .  She  had 
made  her  way  in  the  world  among  men.  She  knew  them, 
worked  among  them,  pitied  them.  Her  father  had  been 
as  weak,  as  evil,  as  passionate,  as  pitiable.  In  the  be 
ginning  she  had  learned  the  world  through  him — all  its 
bitter,  brutal  lessons.  As  she  knew  the  'cello  and  its 
literature,  she  knew  the  world  and  the  cheap  artifices  it 
would  call  arts.  .  .  .  She  had  even  put  away  judg 
ments;  she  had  covered  her  eyes;  accustomed  her  ears 
to  patterings ;  made  her  essential  happiness  of  little 
things;  she  had  labored  truly,  and  lived  on,  wondering 
why.  And  he  had  come  at  last  with  understanding.  She 
had  seen  in  Morning  potentially  all  that  a  woman  loves, 
and  cannot  be.  He  had  made  her  mind  and  heart  fruit 
ful  and  flourishing  again.  Then  his  Guardian  Spirit 
had  appeared  and  spoken.  As  of  old  there  had  been 
talk  of  a  serpent.  As  of  old  the  serpent  was  of 
woman. 

Helen  Quiston  was  just  leaving  for  a  forenoon's 
work  away  from  the  studio.  She  sat  down  for  a  mo 
ment  holding  the  other  in  her  arms ;  then  she  made  tea 
and  toast,  and  hastened  off  to  return  as  quickly  as  pos 
sible.  .  .  .  For  a  long  time  Betty  Berry  stood  by 
the  piano.  The  day  was  gray  and  cold,  but  the  studio 
was  softly  shining.  All  the  woods  of  it  were  dark, 
approximately  the  black  of  the  grand  piano ;  floors  and 
walls  and  picture  frames  were  dark,  but  the  openings 
were  broad,  and  naked  trees  stirred  outside  the  back 
windows.  .  .  .  She  did  not  look  the  illness  that  was 
upon  her.  She  was  a  veteran  in  suffering.  .  .  .  She 
forgot  to  breathe,  until  the  need  of  air  suddenly  caught 
and  shook  her  throat.  It  was  often  so  when  the  hidden 
beauty  of  certain  music  unfolded  to  her  for  the  first 
time. 

She  went  to  the  rear  windows,  gradually  realizing 


THE    HILL-CABIN  205 

that  it  would  soon  be  spring-time.  There  was  a  swift, 
tangible  hurt  in  this  that  brought  tears.  There  had  been 
no  tears  for  the  inner  desolation.  .  .  .  "Poor  dear 
John  Morning,"  she  whispered. 

The  reproduction  of  a  wonderful  painting  of  the 
meeting  of  Beatrice  and  Dante  held  her  eye  for  a  long 
time.  .  .  .  The  blight  was  upon  her  as  she  tried  a 
last  time  to  write.  It  spread  over  her  hand  and  the  table, 
the  room,  the  day.  There  was  a  hurt  for  him  in  every 
thing  she  wanted  to  say.  She  was  hot  and  ill — her  back, 
her  brain,  her  eyes,  from  trying.  She  could  not  hurt 
him  any  more.  He  had  done  nothing  but  give  her  heal 
ing  and  visions.  His  Guardian  had  done  nothing  but 
tell  the  truth,  which  she  had  seen  at  the  time.  This 
agony  of  hers  had  existed.  It  was  like  everything  else 
in  the  world. 

She  wrote  at  last  of  their  service  in  the  world.  They 
needed,  she  said,  the  strong  air  of  solitude  to  think  out 
the  perfect  way.  It  was  very  hard  for  her,  who  had 
fared  so  long  on  dreams  and  denials  and  loneliness.  He 
must  remember  that.  "Great  things  come  to  those  who 
love  at  a  distance,"  she  wrote  bravely.  Tears  started 
when  she  saw  the  sentence  standing  so  dauntlessly  upon 
the  page  of  her  torture.  ...  It  would  make  them 
kinder,  make  their  ideals  live — and  how  young  they 
were !  .  .  .  She  said  that  she  was  afraid  to  be  so 
happy  as  he  had  made  her  in  certain  moments.  Often 
she  found  herself  staring  at  the  picture  of  Beatrice  and 
Dante. 

The  thought  that  broke  in  upon  this  brave  writing 
was  that  she  was  denied  the  thrill  of  great  doing,  as  it 
had  come  to  her  while  Fallows  had  spoken.  ...  It 
would  have  lived  on,  had  she  gone  that  night,  without 
seeing  Morning  again.  Moreover,  her  way  was  different 
from  that  which  she  had  pictured,  as  his  Guardian 
talked.  She  did  not  see  then  that  her  action  made  a  kind 
of  lie  of  all  her  giving  up  to  that  hour;  and  that  there 


206  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

could  be  no  united  sacrifice.  It  was  pure,  voiceless  sacri 
fice  for  her — and  blind  murdering  for  him.  .  .  . 

From  the  choke  of  this,  her  mind  would  turn  to  the 
song  of  triumph  her  spirit  had  sung  as  his  Guardian  told 
the  story.  .  .  .  She  had  seemed  to  live  in  a  vast 
eternal  life,  as  she  listened ;  and  this  which  she  was 
asked  to  do — was  just  to  attend  a  temporary  flesh  sick 
ness.  She  had  the  strange  blessedness  that  comes  with 
the  conviction  that  immortality  is  here  and  now,  as  those 
few  men  and  women  of  the  world  have  known  in  their 
highest  moments. 

She  could  get  back  nothing  of  that  exaltation.  It 
would  never  come  again.  The  spirit  it  had  played  upon 
was  broken.  .  .  .  She  had  been  rushing  away  on  her 
thoughts.  It  was  afternoon,  the  letter  unfinished,  the 
'cello  staring  at  her  from  the  corner.  It  had  stood  by 
her  in  all  her  sorows  of  the  years,  but  was  empty  as  a 
fugue  now — endless  variations  upon  the  one  theme  of 
misery.  .  .  .  Happiness  does  not  come  back  to  the 
little  things — after  one  has  once  known  the  breath  of 
life.  .  .  .  She  closed  the  narrow  way  of  the  letter, 
which  she  had  filled  with  words — no  past  nor  future, 
only  the  darkness  that  had  come  in  to  mingle  with  the 
dark  hangings  of  the  room  of  her  friend.  .  .  .  She 
kissed  the  pages  and  sent  them  back  the  way  she  had 
come  in  the  night. 

The  qualities  that  had  brought  her  the  friend,  Helen 
Quiston,  and  which  had  made  the  friendship  so  real, 
were  the  qualities  of  Betty  Berry.  She  had  come  to  the 
last  woman  to  be  told  of  her  madness,  or  to  find  admoni 
tion  toward  breaking  down  the  thing  she  had  begun. 
.  .  .  They  had  talked  for  hours  that  night. 

"I  know  it  is  lovely,  dear  Betty.  Why,  you  look 
lovelier  this  instant  than  I  ever  dreamed  you  could  be. 
Loving  a  man  seems  to  do  that  to  a  woman — but  the 
privilege  of  the  greater  thing!  Oh,  you  are  privileged. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  207 

That's  the  way  of  the  great  love.  I  should  like  some 
time  to  know  that  Guardian.  How  did  mere  man  grasp 
the  beauty  and  mystery  of  service  like  that?  .  .  . 
Stay  with  me.  I  will  serve  you,  hands  and  feet.  It  is 
enough  for  me  to  touch  the  garment's  hem.  .  .  . 
You  are  already  gone  from  us,  dearest.  You  have  loved 
a  man.  You  do  love  a  man.  He  is  worthy.  You  have 
not  found  him  wanting.  What  matters  getting  him — 
when  you  have  found  your  faith?  Think  of  us — think 
of  the  gray  sisterhood  you  once  belonged  to — nuns  of  the 
world — who  go  about  their  work  helping,  and  who  say 
softly  to  each  other  as  they  pass,  'No,  I  have  not  been 
able  to  find  him  yet.' '' 

17 

MORNING  awoke  in  the  gray  of  the  winter  morn 
ing.  The  place  was  cold  and  impure.  He  had 
fallen  asleep  without  the  accustomed  blasts  of  hill-sweep 
ing  wind  from  window  to  window.  He  had  not  started 
the  fire  the  night  before ;  had  merely  dropped  upon  his 
cot,  dazed  with  suffering  and  not  knowing  his  weariness. 
He  was  reminded  of  places  he  had  awakened  in  other 
times  when  he  could  not  remember  how  he  got  to  bed. 
Beyond  the  chairs  and  table  lay  the  open  fire-place,  the 
ashes  hooded  in  white. 

The  blackness  of  yesterday  returned,  but  with  a  hot 
resentment  against  himself  that  he  had  not  known  be 
fore.  He  had  followed  Betty  Berry  about  for  hours,  and 
had  not  penetrated  the  hollow  darkness  with  a  single 
ray  of  intelligence.  This  dreadful  business  was  his,  yet 
he  had  been  stricken ;  had  scarcely  found  his  speech. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  Betty  Berry  now,  though  a  dozen 
evasions  of  hers  during  the  day  returned.  She  was  do 
ing  something  hard,  but  something  she  thought  best  to 
do.  The  real  truth,  however,  was  rightly  his  property. 
.  .  .  To-day  she  would  write.  To-morrow  her  letter 


208  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

would  come.  If  it  did  not  contain  some  reality  upon 
which  he  might  stand  through  the  present  desolation,  he 
would  go  to  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  would  go  to  her. 

His  side  was  hurting.  He  was  used  to  that;  it  had 
no  new  relation  now.  Everything  was  flat  and  wretched. 
Distaste  for  himself  and  this  nest  in  which  he  had  lain, 
was  but  another  of  the  miserable  adjuncts  of  the  morn 
ing.  He  stood  forth  shivering  from  the  cot;  struck  a 
match  and  held  it  to  some  waste  paper.  Kindling  was 
ready  in  the  fire-place,  but  the  paper  flared  out  and  fell 
to  ashes,  as  he  watched  his  left  hand.  He  went  to  the 
window  and  examined  his  hand  closer.  The  nails  were 
broken  and  dry;  there  were  whitish  spots  on  the  joints. 
He  had  seen  something  of  this  before,  but  his  physical 
reactions  had  been  so  various  and  peculiar,  in  the  past  six 
weeks,  that  he  had  refused  to  be  disturbed. 

Just  now  his  mind  was  clamoring  with  memories. 
He  had  the  sense  that  as  soon  as  an  opening  was  forced 
in  his  mind,  a  torrent  would  rush  in.  He  felt  his  heart 
striking  hard  and  with  rapidity.  The  floor  heaved 
windily,  or  was  it  the  lightness  of  his  limbs?  He  went 
about  the  things  to  do  with  strange  zeal,  as  if  to  keep 
his  brain  from  a  contemplation  so  hideous  that  it  could 
not  be  borne. 

He  lit  another  paper,  placed  kindling  upon  it,  poked 
the  charred  stubs  of  wood  free  from  the  thick  covering 
of  white,  and  brought  fresh  fuel.  Then,  as  the  fire 
kindled,  he  opened  the  door  and  windows,  and  swept  and 
swept.  .  .  .  But  it  encroached  upon  him.  .  .  . 
The  open  wound  was  no  longer  a  mystery.  .  .  .  His 
dream  of  the  river  and  the  boat  that  was  not  allowed  to 
land;  his  dream  of  the  cliff,  and  looking  down  into  the 
life  of  earth  through  the  tree-tops  .  .  .  the  ferry 
man  of  the  Hun  .  .  .  and  now  yesterday  with  its 
two  relations  to  the  old  cause. 

His  whole  nature  was  prepared  for  the  revelation; 
yet  it  seemed  to  require  years  in  coming.  Like  the  loss 


THE    HILL-CABIN  209 

of  the  manuscript  in  the  Liao  ravine,  it  was  done  before 
he  knew. 

"Of  course,  they  had  to  rush  away,  when  they  found 
out,"  he  mumbled.  "Of  course,  they  couldn't  stay.  Of 
course,  they  couldn't  be  the  ones  to  tell  me." 

It  might  have  been  anywhere  in  China;  the  ferryman 
on  the  Hun  .  .  .  during  the  deck-passage.  .  .  . 
It  did  not  greatly  matter.  Some  contact  of  the  Orient 
had  started  the  slow  virus  on  its  long  course  in  his  veins. 
He  knew  that  it  required  from  three  to  five  years  to 
reach  the  stage  of  revealing  itself  as  now.  He  saw  it  as 
the  source  of  his  various  recent  indispositions,  and  rea 
lized  that  he  could  not  remain  in  his  cabin  indefinitely. 
It  would  be  well  for  a  while.  Neither  Duke  Fallows  nor 
Betty  Berry  would  tell.  He  could  keep  his  secret,  and 
then — to  die  in  some  island  quarantine?  None  of  that. 
This  was  his  life.  He  was  master  of  it.  He  should  die 
when  he  pleased,  and  where. 

.  .  Yes,  she  had  her  gloves  on,  when  he  came. 
She  had  not  removed  them  all  day,  not  even  at  the  very 
last.  .  .  .  How  strange  and  frightened  she  had 
been — how  pitiful  and  hard  for  her !  She  could  not  have 
told  him.  She  had  loved  him — and  had  suddenly  learned. 
She  had  seen  that  he  did  not  know.  ...  It 
must  have  come  to  her  in  the  night — after  the  last 
day  of  happiness.  Perhaps  the  processes  of  its  com 
ing  to  her  were  like  his.  He  was  sorry  for  Betty 
Berry. 

And  he  could  not  see  her  again ;  he  could  not  see 
her  again.  He  passed  the  rest  of  the  day  with  this 
repetition.  .  .  .  His  life  was  over.  That's  what  it 
amounted  to.  Of  course,  he  would  not  let  them  segre 
gate  him.  His  cabin  would  do  for  a  while,  until  the 
secret  threatened  to  reveal  itself,  and  then  he  would 
finish  the  business.  .  .  .  The  two  great  issues  leaned 
on  each  other:  The  discovery  of  his  mortal  taint  took 
the  stress  from  the  tragedy  of  yesterday;  and  that  he 


210  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

could  not  see  Betty  Berry  again  kept  madness  away 
from  the  abominable  death.  .  .  .  The  worst  of  it 
all  was  that  the  love-mating  was  ended.  This  brought 
him  to  the  end  of  the  first  day,  when  he  began  to  think 
of  the  Play. 

The  literary  instinct,  of  almost  equal  disorder  with 
dramatic  instinct,  and  which  he  had  come  to  despise  dur 
ing  the  past  year,  returned  with  the  easy  conformity  of 
an  undesirable  acquaintance — that  reportorial  sentence- 
making  faculty,  strong  as  death,  and  as  uncentering  to 
the  soul  of  man.  Morning  saw  himself  searching  libra 
ries  for  data  on  leprosy,  being  caught  by  officials — the 
subject  of  nation-wide  newspaper  articles  and  magazine 
specials,  the  pathos  of  his  case  variously  appearing — 
Liaoyang  recalled — his  own  story — Reever  Kennard  re 
lating  afresh  the  story  of  the  stealing  of  Mio  Aniigo. 
What  a  back-wash  from  days  of  commonness !  The  ego 
and  the  public  eye — two  Dromios — equal  in  monkey- 
mindedness  and  rapacity. 

Morning  was  too  shattered  to  cope  with  this  ancient 
dissipation  at  first. 

After  the  warring  and  onrushing  of  different  facul 
ties,  a  sort  of  coma  fell  upon  the  evil  part,  and  the 
ways  of  the  woman  came  back  to  him.  He  sat  by  his  fire 
that  night,  the  wound  in  his  side  forgotten,  the  essence 
of  Asia's  foulness  in  his  veins,  forgotten — and  medi 
tated  upon  the  sweetness  of  Betty  Berry.  He  approached 
her  image  with  a  good  humility.  He  saw  her  with 
something  of  the  child  upon  her — as  if  he  had  suddenly 
become  full  of  years.  "How  beautiful  she  was !"  he 
would  whisper ;  and  then  he  would  smile  sadly  at  the 
poor  blind  boy  he  had  been,  not  to  see  her  beautiful  at 
first.  .  .  .  To  think,  only  three  days  before,  she 
had  sent  him  away,  because  she  could  not  endure,  except 
alone,  the  visitation  of  happiness  that  came  to  her.  Peo 
ple  of  such  inner  strength  must  have  their  secret  times 
and  places,  for  their  strength  comes  to  them  alone.  To 


THE    HILL-CABIN  211 

think  that  he  had  not  understood  this  at  once.     .     .     . 
He  had  been  eloquent  and  did  not  know  it. 

"Hell,"  he  said,  "that's  the  only  way  one  can  say 
the  right  thing — when  he  doesn't  plan  it." 

.  .  .  If  his  illness  had  been  any  common  thing 
she  would  not  have  been  frightened  away.  He  was  sure 
of  this.  It  took  Asia's  horror — to  frighten  her  away. 
He  saw  her  now,  how  she  must  have  fought  with  it.  He 
shuddered  for  her  suffering  on  that  day.  .  .  .  That 
day — why  it  was  only  the  day  before  yesterday.  .  .  . 
He  never  realized  before  how  the  illusion,  Time,  is  only 
measurable  by  man's  feeling.  .  .  .  He  was  a  little 
surprised  at  Duke  Fallows.  He  himself  wouldn't  have 
been  driven  off,  if  Duke  had  suddenly  uncovered  a  lep 
rous  condition.  He  had  been  driven  off  by  Duke's  ideas, 
but  no  fear  of  contagion  could  do  it.  Yet  Duke  was  the 
bravest  man  he  had  ever  known — in  such  deep  and  aston 
ishing  ways  courageous.  Yet  he  had  been  brought  up 
soft.  He  wasn't  naturally  a  man-mingler.  It  had  been 
too  much  for  him.  It  was  a  staggerer — this.  Fallows 
was  a  Prince  anyway.  Every  man  to  his  own  fear. 
.  .  .  This  was  the  second  morning. 

Old  Jethro,  the  rural  delivery  carrier,  drove  by  that 
morning  without  stopping.  She  could  not  have  mailed 
her  letter  until  last  night — another  day  to  wait  for  it. 
Morning  tried  to  put  away  the  misery.  Women  never 
think  of  mail-closing  times.  They  put  a  letter  in  the 
box  and  consider  it  delivered.  .  .  .  He  puzzled  on, 
regarding  the  action  of  Duke  Fallows,  in  the  light 
of  what  he  would  have  done.  No  understanding 
came. 

All  thoughts  returned  in  the  course  of  the  hours,  his 
mind  milling  over  and  over  again  the  different  phases, 
but  each  day  had  its  especial  theme.  The  first  was  that 
he  would  not  see  Betty  Berry  again ;  that  Duke  Fallows 
had  been  frightened  away,  the  second ;  and  on  the  third 


212  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

morning,  before  dawn,  he  began  to  reckon  with  physi 
cal  death,  as  if  this  day's  topic  had  been  assigned  to 
him. 

Sister  Death — she  had  been  in  the  shadows  before. 
Occasionally  he  had  shivered  afterward,  when  he  thought 
of  some  close  brush  with  her.  She  was  all  right,  only  he 
had  thought  of  her  as  an  alien  before.  It  really  wasn't 
so — a  blood  sister  now.  .  .  .  He  recalled  scenes  in 
the  walled  cities  of  China.  .  .  .  She  had  certainly 
put  over  a  tough  one  on  him.  ...  It  would  be  in 
this  room.  He  wouldn't  wait  until  his  appearance  was 
a  revelation.  .  .  .  He  would  do  the  play.  Some 
thing  that  he  could  take,  would  free  him  from  the  pres 
ent  inertia,  so  he  could  work  for  a  while,  a  few 
hours  a  day.  When  the  play  was  done — the  Sister 
would  come  at  his  bidding.  .  .  .  He  had  always 
thought  of  her  as  feminine.  A  line  from  somewhere 
seemed  to  seize  upon  her  very  image — this  time  not  sis 
ter,  but 

Dark  mother,  always  gliding  near,  with  soft 
feet 

He  faced  her  out  on  that  third  morning.  Physically 
there  was  but  a  tremor  about  the  coming.  Not  the 
suffering,  but  a  certain  touch  and  shake  of  the  heart, 
heaved  him  a  little — the  tough  little  pump  stopped,  its 
fine  incentive  and  its  life  business  broken.  .  .  . 
But  that  was  only  the  rattle  of  the  door-knob  of 
death. 

It  was  all  right.  He  wasn't  afraid.  The  devil,  Am 
bition,  was  pretty  well  strangled.  There  must  be  some 
thing  that  lasts,  in  his  late-found  sense  of  the  utter  un 
importance  of  anything  the  world  can  give — the  world 
which  appreciates  only  the  boyish  part  of  a  real  man's 
work.  So  he  would  take  out  with  him  a  reality  of  the 
emptiness  of  the  voice  of  the  crowd.  Then  the  unclean 
desire  for  drink  was  finished — none  of  that  would  cling 
to  him;  moreover,  no  fighting  passion  to  live  on  would 


THE    HILL-CABIN  213 

hold  him  down  to  the  body  of  things.  .  .  .  But  he 
would  pass  the  door  with  the  love  of  Betty  Berry — 
strong,  young,  imperious,  almost  untried.  .  .  . 
Would  that  come  back  with  him  ?  Does  a  matter  of  such 
dimension  die?  Does  one  come  back  at  all?  .  .  . 

Probably  in  this  room.     .     .     . 

Then  he  thought  of  the  play  that  must  be  done  in 
this  room ;  and  curiously  with  it,  identifying  itself  with 
the  play  and  the  re-forming  part  of  it,  was  the  favorite 
word  of  Duke  Fallows' — Compassion.  What  a  title  for 
the  play!  Duke's  word  and  Duke's  idea.  .  .  .  All 
this  brought  him  to  the  thought  of  Service,  as  he  had 
pictured  it  for  Betty  Berry — a  life  together  doing  things 
for  men — loving  each  other  so  much  that  there  were 
volumes  to  spare  for  the  world — down  among  men — to 
the  deepest  down  man. 

His  throat  tightened  suddenly.  He  arose.  A  sob 
came  from  him.  .  .  .  His  control  broke  all  at  once. 
.  .  .  How  a  little  run  of  thoughts  could  tear  down 
a  man's  will !  It  wasn't  fear  at  all — but  the  same  depic 
tion  running  in  his  mind  that  had  so  affected  Betty  Berry 
when  she  begged  to  be  alone.  .  .  . 

"The  deepest  down  man — the  deepest  down  man. 
.  .  .  It  is  I,  Duke !  .  .  .  Surely  you  must  have 
meant  me  all  the  time!" 

But  it  passed  quickly,  properly  whipped  and  put  away 
with  other  matters — all  but  a  certain  relating  together  of 
the  strange  trinity,  Death,  Service,  and  Betty  Berry — 
which  he  did  not  venture  to  play  with,  for  fear  of  re 
lapse.  .  .  .  He  had  been  eating  nothing.  He  must 
go  to  Hackensack.  The  little  glass  showed  him  a  hag 
gard  and  unshaven  John  Morning,  but  there  was  noth 
ing  of  the  uncleanness  about  the  face  in  reflection.  .  .  . 
He  heard  the  "giddap"  of  Jethro  far  on  the  road.  The 
old  rig  was  coming.  ...  It  stopped  at  his  box.  He 
hurried  down  the  hill. 


214  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

18 

TWO  letters;  one  from  Duke  Fallows.  Morning 
opened  this  on  the  way  up  the  slope.  He  was 
afraid  of  the  other.  He  wanted  to  be  in  the  cabin  with 
the  door  shut — when  that  other  was  opened.  .  .  . 
Fallows  was  joyous  and  tender — just  a  few  lines  written 
on  the  way  west:  "...  I  won't  be  long  in  'Frisco. 
I  know  that  already.  The  Western  States  does  very 
well  without  me.  .  .  .  Soon  on  the  long  road  to 
Asia  and  Russia.  I  must  look  up  Lowenkampf  again  be 
fore  going  home.  He  was  good  to  us,  wasn't  he,  John? 
.  .  .  And  you,  this  old  heart  thrills  for  you.  You 
are  coming  on.  I  don't  know  anything  more  you  need. 
I  say  you  are  coming  on.  You'll  do  the  Play  and  the 
Book.  .  .  .  John,  you  ought  to  write  the  book  of  the 
world's  heart.  .  .  .  And  then  you  will  get  so  full  of 
the  passion  to  serve  men  that  writing  won't  be  enough. 
You  will  have  to  go  down  among  them  again — and 
labor  and  lift  among  men.  Things  have  formed  about 
you  for  this.  .  .  .  We  are  friends.  ...  I  am 
coming  back  for  the  harvest." 

The  sun  had  come  out.  Morning  was  standing  in  the 
doorway  as  he  finished.  The  lemon-colored  light  fell 
upon  the  paper.  ...  It  wasn't  like  Duke  to  write  in 
this  vein — after  running  away.  He  repeated  aloud  a 
sentence  to  this  effect.  Then  he  went  in,  shut  the  door, 
and,  almost  suffocating  from  the  tension,  read  the  letter 
of  Betty  Berry. 

It  was  just  such  a  letter  as  would  have  sent  him  to 
her,  before  his  realization  of  the  illness.  .  .  .  He 
saw  her  torture  to  be  kind,  and  yet  not  to  lift  his  hopes. 
It  was  different  from  Fallows',  in  that  it  fitted  exactly  to 
what  he  now  knew  about  himself.  And  he  had  to  believe 
from  the  pages  that  she  loved  him.  There  was  an  eter^ 
nal  equality  to  that.  .  .  .  The  air  seemed  full  of 
service.  Two  letters  from  his  finest  human  relations, 


THE    HILL-CABIN  215 

each  stirring  him  to  service.  He  did  not  see  this  just 
now  with  the  touch  of  bitterness  that  might  have  flav 
ored  it  all  another  time.  .  .  .  What  was  there  about 
him  that  made  them  think  of  him  so?  If  they  only 
knew  how  meager  and  tainted  so  much  of  his  thinking 
was.  Some  men  can  never  make  the  world  see  how  little 
they  are. 

He  wrote  to  Betty  Berry.  Calm  came  to  him,  and 
much  the  best  moments  that  he  had  known  in  the  three 
days.  He  was  apt  to  be  a  bit  lyrical  as  a  letter-lover — he 
whose  words  were  so  faltering  face  to  face  with  the 
woman.  Thoughts  of  the  play  came  to  his  writing.  He 
was  really  in  touch  with  himself  again.  He  would  never 
lose  that.  He  would  work  every  day.  When  a  man's 
work  comes  well — he  can  face  anything.  .  .  .  The 
play  was  begun  the  fourth  day,  and,  on  the  fifth,  another 
letter  from  Betty  Berry.  This  was  almost  all  about  his 
work.  She  had  seized  upon  this  subject,  and  her  letters 
lifted  his  inspiration.  She  could  share  his  work.  There 
was  real  union  in  that.  .  . 

He  was  forgetting  his  devil  for  an  hour  at  a  time. 
There  were  moments  of  actual  peace  and  well-being.  He 
did  not  suffer  more  than  the  pain  he  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  so  long.  And  then,  a  real  spring  day  breathed 
over  the  hill. 

That  morning,  without  any  heat  of  producing,  and 
without  any  elation  from  a  fresh  letter  from  the  woman, 
he  found  that  in  his  mind  to  say  aloud : 

"I'm  ready  for  what  comes." 

By  a  really  dramatic  coincidence,  within  ten  minutes 
after  this  fruitage  of  fine  spirit,  John  Morning  found  an 
old  unopened  envelope  from  Nevin,  the  little  doctor  of 
the  Sickles.  He  had  recalled  some  data  on  Liaoyang 
while  inspecting  the  morning — something  that  might 
prove  valuable  for  the  play,  in  the  old  wallet  he  had 
carried  afield.  Looking  for  this  in  the  moulded  leather, 
he  found  the  letter  Nevin  had  left  in  the  Armory,  before 


21 6  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

departing — just  a  little  before  Betty  Berry  came  that  day. 
.  .  .  Nevin  had  not  come  back.  But  Noyes  and  Field 
had  come. 

Morning  remembered  that  Nevin  had  spoken  that 
morning  of  finding  something  for  the  wound  that 
would  not  heal.  .  .  .  The  remedy  was  Chinese.  The 
Doctor  knew  of  its  existence,  but  had  procured  the  name 
with  great  difficulty  in  the  Chinese  quarter.  .  .  . 
Morning  was  to  fast  ten  days  while  taking  the  treatment. 

He  went  about  it  with  a  laugh.  The  message  had 
renewed  his  deep  affection  for  Nevin.  It  had  come 
forth  from  the  hidden  place  where  Nevin  now  toiled, 
(secretly  trying,  doubtless,  to  cover  every  appearance  of 
his  humanity).  .  .  .  He  remembered  how  Nevin 
had  studied  the  wound  that  refused  to  heal.  The  last 
thing  had  been  his  report  on  that.  When  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  offered  but  felicities — he  had 
vanished. 

Morning  did  not  leap  into  any  expectancy  that  he 
was  to  be  healed,  but  thoughts  of  Nevin  gave  him  another 
desire  after  the  play  and  the  book — to  trace  the  great 
hearted  little  man  before  the  end.  Nevin  would  be  found 
somewhere  out  among  the  excessive  desolations.  If  it 
may  be  understood,  the  idea  of  mortal  sickness  remained 
in  Morning's  mind  at  this  time,  mainly  as  a  barrier  be 
tween  him  and  Betty  Berry. 

Nevin's  drug  was  procured  in  New  York.  Hacken- 
sack  failed  utterly  in  this.  .  .  .  On  the  third  day, 
Morning  suffered  keenly  for  the  need  of  food.  A  para 
graph  from  Betty  Berry  on  the  subject  of  the  fasting  at 
this  time  completely  astonished  him ;  indeed,  shook  the 
basic  conviction  as  to  the  meaning  of  her  departure: 

"...  I  have  often  thought  you  did  not  seem  so 
well  after  I  returned  from  Europe,  as  you  were  when 
we  parted.  But  the  ten  days  will  do  for  you,  something 
that  makes  whatever  might  happen  in  the  body  seem  so 


THE    HILL-CABIN  217 

little  and  unavailing.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see,  you  are 
doing  what  every  one,  destined  to  be  a  world-teacher, 
has  done?  .  .  .  What  amazes  me  continually,  is  that 
you  seem  to  be  brought,  one  by  one,  to  these  things  by 
exterior  processes,  rather  than  through  any  will  of  your 
;own.  .  .  .  The  Hebrew  prophets  were  all  called 
upon  to  do  this  in  order  to  listen  better.  Recall,  too,  the 
coming  forth  from  the  Wilderness  of  the  Baptist,  and  the 
forty  days  in  the  wilderness  of  the  Master  Himself. 
Why,  it  is  part  of  the  formula !  You  will  do  more  than 
improve  the  physical  health ;  you  will  hear  your  message 
more  clearly.  .  .  .  I  sit  and  think — in  the  very  hush 
of  expectancy  for  you." 

As  the  evidences  came,  so  they  vanished.  She  could 
not  have  fled  from  him  in  the  fear  of  leprosy  and  writ 
ten  in  this  way ;  nor  could  Duke  Fallows,  who  was  first 
of  all  unafraid  of  fleshly  things.  The  conviction  of  his 
taint,  and  of  its  incurableness,  daily  weakened.  Before 
the  ten  days  passed,  the  last  vestige  of  the  horror  was 
cleaned  away.  Illusion — and  yet  the  mental  battle 
through  which  he  had  passed,  and  which,  through  three 
terrible  days,  had  shaken  him  body  and  soul,  was  just 
as  real  in  the  graving  of  its  experience  upon  the  fabric 
of  his  being  as  was  the  journey  to  Koupangtse,  done 
hand  and  foot  and  horse.  He  perceived  that  man,  farther 
advanced  in  the  complications  of  self-consciousness,  cov 
ers  ground  in  three  days  and  masters  a  lesson  that  would 
require  a  life  to  learn  in  the  dimness  and  leisure  of 
simple  consciousness. 

There  was  no  way  of  missing  this  added  fact:  He, 
John  Morning,  was  not  designed  to  lean.  He  had  been 
whipped  and  spurred  through  another  dark  hollow  in 
the  valley  of  the  shadow,  to  show  him  again,  and  finally, 
that  he  was  not  intended  for  leaning  upon  others,  yet 
must  have  an  instant  appreciation  of  the  suffering  of 
others.  He  had  been  forced  to  fight  his  own  way  to  a 
certain  poise,  through  what  was  to  him,  at  the  time, 


218  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

actual  abandonment  in  distress,  by  the  woman  and  the 
friend  he  loved.  Moreover,  he  had  accepted  death  ;  resig 
nation  to  death  in  its  most  horrible  form  had  been  driven 
into  his  soul — an  important  life  lesson,  which  whole 
races  of  men  have  died  to  learn. 

He  was  seeing  very  clearly.  .  .  .  He  bathed  con 
tinually  both  in  water  and  sunlight,  lying  in  the  open 
doorway  as  the  Spring  took  root  on  his  hill  and  below. 
Often  he  mused  away  the  hours,  with  Betty  Berry's  let 
ters  in  his  hand — too  weak  almost  to  stir  at  last,  but 
filled  with  ease  and  well-being,  such  as  he  had  never 
known.  Water  from  the  Spring  was  all  he  needed, 
and  the  activity  of  mind  was  pure  and  unerring,  as 
if  he  were  lifted  above  the  enveloping  mists  of  the 
senses,  through  which  he  had  formerly  regarded 
life. 

Everything  now  was  large  and  clear.  Life  was  like 
a  coast  of  splendid  altitude,  from  which  he  viewed  the 
mighty  distances  of  gilded  and  cloud-shadowed  sea,  birds 
sailing  vast-pinioned  and  pure,  the  breakers  sounding 
a  part  of  the  majestic  harmony  of  granite  and  sea  and 
sky;  the  sun  Gad-like,  and  the  stars  vast  and  pure  like 
the  birds. 

When  he  actually  looked  with  his  eyes,  it  was  as  if 
he  had  come  back,  a  man,  to  some  haunt  of  childhood. 
The  little  hill  was  just  as  lovely,  a  human  delight  in  the 
unbudded  elms,  a  soft  and  childish  familiarity  in  the 
new  greens  of  the  sun-slope  grass.  The  yellow  primrose 
was  first  to  come,  for  yellow  answers  the  thinnest,  farth 
est  sunlight.  The  little  cabin  was  like  a  cocoon.  He  was 
but  half-out.  Soon  the  stronger  sunlight  would  set  him 
free — then  to  the  wings.  .  .  .  One  afternoon  he 
stared  across  to  the  haze  of  the  great  city.  His  eyes 
smarted  with  the  thought  of  the  Charleys  and  the  sis 
ters,  of  the  Boabdils  and  the  slums.  .  .  .  Then,  at 
last,  he  thought  of  Betty  Berry  waiting  and  thinking  of 
him  .  .  .  "in  the  very  hush  of  expectancy."  The 


THE   HILL-CABIN  219 

world  was  very  dear  and  wonderful,  and  his  love  for  her 
was  in  it  all. 

It  was  the  ninth  day  that  the  bandage  slipped  from 
him,  as  clean  as  when  he  put  it  on  the  day  before,  and 
when  he  opened  the  door  of  the  cabin  he  heard  the  first 
robin.  .  .  .  There  was  a  sweeping  finality  in  the 
way  it  had  come  from  Nevin,  and  the  quality  of  the  man 
lived  in  Morning's  appreciation.  His  friends  were  al 
ways  gone  before  he  knew  how  fine  they  were. 

He  was  slow  to  realize  that  the  days  of  earth-life 
were  plentiful  for  him,  in  the  usual  course.  A  man  is 
never  the  same  after  he  has  accepted  death.  .  .  . 
And  it  had  all  come  in  order.  .  .  .  He  could  look 
into  her  eyes  and  say,  "Betty  Berry,  whatever  you  want, 
is  right  for  me,  but  I  think  it  would  be  best  for  you  to 
tell  me  everything.  We  are  strong — and  if  we  are  not 
to  be  one  together,  we  should  talk  it  over  and  under 
stand  perfectly."  .  .  . 

How  strange  he  had  missed  this  straight  way.  There 
had  been  so  much  illusion  before.  His  body  was  utterly 
weak,  but  his  mind  saw  more  clearly  and  powerfully  than 
ever. 

The  Play  was  conceived  as  a  whole  that  ninth  day. 
The  sun  came  warmly  in,  while  he  wrote  at  length  of 
the  work,  as  he  finally  saw  it.  ...  On  the  tenth 
day  he  drank  a  little  milk  and  slept  in  his  chair  by  the 
doorway.  .  .  .  There  was  one  difficult  run  that  the 
robin  went  over  a  hundred  and  fifty  times,  at  least. 


19 

BETTY  BERRY  watched  the  progress  of  the  fast 
ing   with    a    mothering    intensity.      She    saw   that 
which  had  been  lyrical  and  impassioned  give  way  to  the 
workman,  the   deeper-seeing  artist.     He   was   not  less 


220  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

human;  his  humanity  was  broadened.  From  one  of  his 
pages,  she  read  how  he  had  looked  across  at  the  higher 
lights  of  New  York  o/ie  clear  March  night.  His  mind 
had  been  suddenly  startled  by  a  swift  picture  of  the 
fighting  fool  he  had  been,  and  of  the  millions  there, 
beating  themselves  and  each  other  to  death  for  vain 
things.  .  .  .  She  saw  his  Play  come  on  in  the  days 
that  followed  the  fasting.  There  was  freshness  in  his 
voice.  She  did  not  know  that  he  had  accepted  death, 
but  she  saw  that  he  was  beginning  to  accept  her  will  in 
their  separation. 

And  this  is  what  she  had  tried  to  bring  about,  but 
her  heart  was  breaking.  Dully  she  wondered  if  her 
whole  life  were  not  breaking.  The  something  implacable 
which  she  had  always  felt  in  being  a  woman,  held  her 
like  a  matrix  of  iron  now.  Her  life  story  had  been  a 
classic  of  suffering,  yet  she  had  never  suffered  before. 

A  letter  from  him,  (frequently  twice  a  day,  they 
came)  and  it  was  her  instant  impulse  to  answer,  al 
most  as  if  he  had  spoken.  And  when  she  wrote — all 
the  woman's  life  of  her  had  to  be  cut  from  it — cut  again 
and  again — until  was  left  only  what  another  might  say. 
.  .  .  She  was  forced  to  learn  the  terrible  process  of 
elimination  which  only  the  greater  artists  realize,  and 
which  they  learn  only  through  years  of  travail — that 
selection  of  the  naked  absolute,  according  to  their  vision, 
all  the  senses  chiseled  away.  His  work,  his  health, 
especially  the  clear-seeing  that  came  from  purifying  of 
the  body,  the  detachment  of  his  thoughts  from  physical 
emotions — of  these,  which  were  clear  to  her  as  the  im 
pulses  of  instinct — she  allowed  herself  to  write.  But 
the  woman's  heart  of  flesh,  which  had  fasted  so  long 
for  love,  so  often  found  its  way  to  her  pages,  and  forced 
them  to  be  done  again.  .  .  .  Certain  of  his  para 
graphs  dismayed  her,  as : 

"Does  it  astonish  you,"  he  asked,  almost  joyously, 
"when  I  say  there  is  something  about  Betty  Berry  be- 


THE    HILL-CABIN  221 

yond  question — such  a  luxurious  sense  of  truth?  .  .  . 
I  feel  your  silences  and  your  listenings  between  every 
sentence.  It  is  not  what  you  say,  though  in  words  you 
seem  to  know  what  I  am  to-day,  and  what  I  shall  be 
to-morrow — but  all  about  the  words,  are  you — those  per 
fect  hesitations,  the  things  which  I  seemed  to  know  at 
first,  but  could  not  express.  They  were  much  too  fine 
for  a  medium  of  expression  which  knew  only  wars, 
horses,  and  the  reporting  of  words  and  deeds  of  men. 
.  .  .  Why,  the  best  thing  in  my  heart  is  its  trust  for 
you,  Betty  Berry.  Looking  back  upon  our  hours  to 
gether,  I  can  see  now  that  all  the  misunderstandings 
were  mine  and  all  the  truth  yours.  When  it  seems  to  me 
that  we  should  be  together,  and  the  memories  come  pil 
ing  back — those  perfect  hours — I  say,  because  of  this 
trust,  'Though  it  is  not  as  I  would  have  it,  her  way  is 
better.  And  I  know  I  shall  come  to  see  it,  because  she 
cannot  be  wrong.'  " 

So  she  could  not  hide  her  heart  from  him,  even 
though  she  put  down  what  seemed  to  her  unworthiness 
and  evasion,  and  decided  through  actual  brain-process 
what  was  best  to  say.  A  new  conduct  of  life  was  not 
carrying  Betty  Berry  up  into  the  coolness  beyond  the 
senses.  Fasting  would  never  bring  that  to  her.  Fast 
ing  of  the  body  was  so  simple  compared  to  the  fasting1 
of  the  heart  which  had  been  her  whole  life.  Nor  could 
she  ever  rise  long  from  the  sense  of  the  serpent  in  wo 
man  which  she  had  realized  from  the  words  of  his 
Guardian — not  a  serpent  to  the  usual  man,  but  to  the 
man  who  was  destined  to  love  the  many  instead  of  one. 
.  .  .  She  loved  him  as  a  woman  loves — the  boy,  the 
lover,  the  man  of  him — the  kisses,  the  whispers,  the 
arms  of  strength,  the  rapture  of  nearness.  .  .  . 

He  must  have  been  close  to  the  spirit  of  that  night 
at  the  theatre,  when  this  was  written : 

"The  letter  to-day,  with  the  plaintive  note  in  it,  has 
brought  you  even  closer.  I  never  think  of  you  as  one 


222  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

who  can  be  tried  seriously ;  always  as  one  finished,  with 
infinite  patience,  and  no  regard  at  all  for  the  encompass 
ing  common.  Of  course,  I  know  differently,  know  that 
you  must  suffer,  you  who  are  so  keenly  and  exquisitely 
animate — but  you  have  an  un-American  poise.  .  .  . 
You  played  amazingly.  I  loved  that  at  once.  There  was 
a  gleam  about  it.  Betty  Berry's  gleaming.  I  faced  you 
from  the  wings  that  night.  I  wanted  to  come  up  behind 
you.  You  were  all  music.  .  .  .  But  I  love  even  bet 
ter  the  instrument  of  emotions  you  have  become.  That 
must  be  what  music  is  for — to  sensitize  one's  life,  to 
make  it  more  and  more  responsive.  .  .  ." 

Then  in  a  different  vein : 

".  .  .  The  long  forenoons,  wherein  we  grow. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  knew  you  were  a  tree-lover;  that  the 
sound  of  running  water  was  dear  to  you  .  .  .  and 
the  things  you  dream  of  ...  work  and  play  and 
forest  scents  and  the  wind  in  the  branches.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  it  seems  to  me — is  it  a  saying  of  lovers? — 
that  we  should  be  boy  and  girl  together.  .  .  .  Why, 
I've  only  just  now  learned  to  be  a  boy.  There  was  so 
much  of  crudity  and  desire  and  anguish-to-do-greatly- 
at-any-cost — until  just  a  little  ago.  But  I've  never  had  a 
boyhood  that  could  have  known  you.  I  wasn't  ready  for 
such  loveliness  in  the  beginning.  .  .  .  I've  wanted 
terribly  to  go  to  you,  but  that  is  put  away  for  the  time." 

These  lines  wrung  her  heart.  "Oh,  no,"  she  cried, 
"you  have  not  learned  how  to  become  a  boy.  There  was 
never  a  time  you  were  not  ready — until  now!  You  are 
becoming  a  man — and  the  little  girl — oh,  she  is  a  little 
girl  in  her  heart.  .  .  ." 

Everything  his  Guardian  had  promised  was  coming 
to  be.  He  was  changing  into  a  man.  That  would  take 
him  from  her  at  the  last — even  letters,  this  torrent  of 
his  thoughts  of  life  and  work.  She  saw  the  first  process 
of  it — as  the  Play  grasped  him  finally — the  old  tragedy 
of  a  man  turning  from  a  woman  to  his  work.  .  .  . 


THE    HILL-CABIN  223 

She  built  the  play  from  the  flying  sparks.  .  . 
He  was  thronged  with  illusions  of  production.  How 
badly  he  had  done  it  before,  he  said,  and  how  perfect 
had  proved  the  necessity  to  wait,  and  to  do  it  a  second 
time.  .  .  .  Even  the  most  unimaginative  audience 
must  build  the  great  battle  picture  from  the  headquarters 
scene ;  then  the  trampled  arena  of  the  Ploughman,  deep 
in  the  hollow  of  that  valley,  and  his  coming  forth  through 
the  millet.  .  .  . 

".  .  .  It's  so  simple,"  he  wrote  in  fierce  haste. 
"You  see,  I  remember  how  hard  it  was  for  me  to  grasp 
that  first  night,  when  Fallows  brought  in  the  story  to  the 
Russian  headquarters.  ...  I  have  remembered 
that.  I  have  made  it  so  that  I  could  see  it  then.  And  I 
was  woven  in  and  fibred  over  with  coarseness,  from 
months  of  life  in  Liaoyang  and  from  the  day's  hideous 
brutality.  I  have  measured  my  slowness  and  written  to 
quicken  such  slowness  as  that.  The  mystery  is,  it  is  not 
spoiled  by  such  clearness.  It  is  better — it  never  lets  you 
alone.  It  won't  let  you  lie  to  yourself.  You  can't  be  the 
same  after  reading  it.  ...  And  it  goes  after  the 
deepest  down  man.  .  .  .  Every  line  is  involved  in 
action. 

"The  third  act — sometime  we'll  see  it  together — how 
the  main  character  leaves  the  field  and  goes  out  in  search 
of  the  Ploughman's  hut,  across  Asia  and  Europe ;  how 
he  reaches  there — the  old  father  and  mother,  the  six 
children,  the  one  little  boy,  who  has  the  particular  an* 
swer  for  the  man's  lonely  love — the  mother  of  the  six, 
common,  silent,  angular,  her  skirt  hanging  square,  as 
Duke  put  it — but  she  is  big  enough  for  every  one  to  get 
into  her  heart.  You  will  see  the  fear  of  her  man's 
death,  which  the  stranger's  presence  brings  to  her,  though 
he  leaves  it  to  Russia  to  inform  the  family.  You  will  see 
the  beautiful  mystery  of  compassion  that  he  brings,  too. 
That's  the  whole  shine  of  the  piece.  And  it  came  from 
the  ministry  of  pain. 


224  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

.  .  .  "I'm  not  praising  my  Play — it  isn't.  It's 
Duke's  almost  every  word  of  it — every  thought,  the  work 
of  Duke's  disciple.  I  have  merely  felt  it  all  and  made  it 
clear — clear.  You  see  it  all.  Many  thousands  must  see, 
and  see  what  the  name  means.  It's  the  most  wonderful 
word  in  the  world  to  me,  Compassion." 

Then  came  the  break  for  a  day,  and  the  flash  that 
his  work  on  the  Play  was  finished.  "The  cabin  will  be 
harder  for  me  now.  The  new  work  is  only  a  dream  so 
far — and  this  goes  to  Markheim  to-day.  .  .  .  It  is 
very  queer  that  I  should  go  back  to  Markheim,  but  some 
how  I  want  to  pick  up  that  failure.  There  are  other 
reasons.  ...  I  shall  tell  him  that  he  can  have  five 
days,  I'm  just  getting  ready  to  go  across  the  River. 
.  .  .  My  health  was  almost  never  better.  I'm  not 
tired.  The  work  has  seemed  to  replenish  me,  as  your 
letters  do.  But  that  last  letter — yesterday's — it  seems 
to  come  from  behind  a  screen,  where  other  voices  were — 
the  loved  tones  troubled  and  crowded  out  by  others.  It 
left  me  restless  and  more  than  ever  longing  to  see  you. 
It  is  as  if  there  were  centuries  all  unintelligible,  to  be 
made  clear  only  by  being  with  you.  The  world  and  the 

other  voices  drown  yours " 

She  felt  the  instinct  of  centuries  to  hold  out  her  arms 
to  him — arms  of  the  woman,  after  man's  task  in  the 
world — home  at  evening  with  the  prize  of  the  hunt  and 
battle.  The  world  for  the  day,  the  woman  for  the  night 
— that  is  man's  way.  She  seemed  to  know  it  now  from 
past  eternity.  And  for  woman — day  and  night  the  man 
of  her  thoughts.  .  .  .  She  was  afraid  of  her  every 
written  word  now.  Her  heart  answered  every  thrill  of 
his ;  the  murmuring  and  wrestling  resistance  of  his 
against  the  miles,  was  hers  ten-fold.  .  .  .  The  days 
of  the  fasting  had  not  been  like  this,  nor  the  two  weeks 
that  followed  in  which  he  had  completed  the  play. 
.  .  .  April  had  come.  She  was  ill.  Her  music  was 
neglected  altogether.  Her  friend,  Helen  Quiston,  never 


THE    HILL-CABIN  225 

faltered  in  her  conception  of  the  beauty  and  the  mystery 
of  the  separation.  With  all  her  will,  Helen  sustained  her 
against  the  relinquishing  of  the  lofty  ideal  of  sacrifice, 
and  tried  to  distract  her  impassioned  turning  to  the  east. 
.  .  .  She  would  hold  to  the  death ;  Betty  Berry  knew 
this. 

"It's  harder  now  that  the  play  is  done,"  Betty  re 
peated.  "He  can't  be  driven  instantly  to  work  again.  I 
can't  lie  to  him.  He  doesn't  fight  me — he  thinks  I'm 
right — that's  the  unspeakable  part  of  it.  There  is  noth 
ing  for  me  to  write  about  except  his  work.  .  .  ." 

And  Helen  Quiston  found  her,  a  half-hour  afterward, 
staring  out  of  the  window,  exactly  as  she  had  left — her 
hands  in  her  lap  exactly  the  same.  .  .  .  Betty  Berry 
was  thinking  unutterable  things,  having  to  do  with  ador 
able  meetings  in  the  theatre-wings — of  wonderful  night 
journeys,  all  night  talking — of  waiting  in  a  little  room, 
and  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  There  was  an  invariable 
coming  back  to  the  first  kiss  in  the  wings  of  the  theatre. 

"We  were  real — we  were  true  to  each  other  that 
night — true  as  little  children.  We  needed  no  words," 
this  was  her  secret  story.  .  .  .  "Oh,  I  waited  so 
long  for  him  .  .  .  and  we  could  have  gone  out  to 
gether  and  served  in  a  little  way.  But  they  would  not 
let  us  alone." 

He  had  been  across  to  New  York.  .  .  .  The 
second  morning  after  the  play  was  finished,  she  received 
a  letter  with  a  rather  indescribable  ending.  He  told  her 
of  fears  and  strangeness,  of  intolerable  longing  for  some 
thing  to  happen  that  would  bring  them  together.  .  .  . 
The  rest  is  here : 

"I'm  a  bit  excited  by  the  thought  that  just  came  to 
me.  And  another,  but  I  won't  tell  you  yet,  for  fear. 
.  .  .  I  don't  quite  understand  myself.  I  seem  afraid. 
I  think  I  would  ask  more  of  myself  than  I  would  of 
another  man  just  now.  There  seem  all  about  me  invis 
ible  restraints.  Something  deep  within  recognizes  the 


226  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

greatness  and  finality  of  your  meaning  to  me.  .  .  . 
It  is  true,  you  do  not  leave  the  strength  to  me.  Did  you 
ever — ?  No,  I  won't  ask  that.  .  .  .  This  letter  isn't 
kind  to  you — unsettling,  strange,  full  of  an  intensity  to 
see  and  be  with  you.  .  .  ." 

Moments  afterwards,  as  she  was  standing  at  the 
piano — the  letter  trailing  from  her  hand — the  telephone 
in  the  inner  room  startled  her  like  a  human  cry. 


20 

IT  was  Morning.  She  did  not  remember  his  words  nor 
her  answers — only  that  she  had  told  him  he  might 
come  up-town  to  her.  He  had  dropped  the  receiver  then, 
as  if  it  burned  him. 

So,  it  was  a  matter  of  minutes.  Nothing  was  ready. 
Least  of  all,  was  she  ready.  She  could  hardly  stand. 
She  had  forgotten  at  first,  and  it  had  required  courage, 
of  late,  to  look  in  the  mirror.  She  would  have  given  up, 
before  what  she  saw  now,  but  a  robin  was  singing  in 
the  foliage  by  the  rear  windows.  She  went  out  to  open 
the  studio  door  into  the  hall,  then  retired  to  the  inner 
room  again.  .  .  .  "He  can  heal  you,  and  bring  back 
the  music,"  her  heart  whispered,  but  her  mind  cowered 
before  herself,  and  this  mate  of  herself,  Helen  Quiston, 
and  before  his  Guardian.  .  .  .  She  heard  his  step 
on  the  stair  .  .  .  called  to  him  to  wait  in  the  studio. 
He  was  pacing  to  and  fro. 

Morning  felt  the  light  resistance  in  her  arms.  His 
kiss  fell  upon  her  cheek.  He  held  her  at  arm's  length, 
looking  into  her  face. 

She  laughed,  repeating  that  she  was  not  ill.  .  .  . 
She  was  always  thinner  in  summer,  she  said.  In  her 
withholding,  there  was  destructiveness  for  the  zeal  he 
had  brought;  and  that  which  she  set  herself  resolutely 
to  impart — the  sense  of  their  separateness — found  its 


THE    HILL-CABIN  227 

lodgment  in  his  nature.  It  would  always  be  there  now, 
she  thought ;  it  would  augment,  like  ice  about  a  spring 
in  early  winter,  until  the  frost  sealed  the  running  alto 
gether.  The  lover  was  stayed,  though  his  mind  would 
not  yet  believe. 

"Is  it  really  possible,"  he  said,  sitting  before  her  rest 
lessly,  "that  I  am  here  in  your  house,  and  that  I  can  stay, 
and  talk  with  you,  and  see  you  and  hear  you  play?  I 
have  thought  about  it  so  much  that  it's  hard  to  realize." 

"It  is  quite  what  a  lover  would  say,"  she  thought. 
.  .  .  She  had  to  watch  her  words.  Her  heart  went 
out  to  him,  but  her  mind  remembered  the  work  to  do. 
.  .  .  Self-consciousness,  and  a  weighing  of  words — 
how  horrible  between  them! 

"And  what  made  you  come?  I  had  just  read  your 
letter,  when  the  telephone  rang 

"I  shouldn't  have  sent  that  letter,"  he  answered.  "I 
must  have  sent  it  because  of  the  things  I  thought,  and 
didn't  write.  .  .  .  The  night  before,  I  had  come  home 
to  the  cabin — after  Markheim  and  the  city.  It  was 
dreadful — with  the  work  gone.  Yesterday  was  too  much 
for  me — the  Spring  day — alone — not  ready  to  begin 
again — you  here.  ...  I  got  to  thinking  about  you 
so  fast — and  the  shame  of  it,  for  us  to  be  apart — that 
I  couldn't  endure  it.  ...  I  thought  of  going  to 
you  in  a  month — in  a  week ;  and  then  when  the 
letter  was  mailed,  I  thought  of  it  being  with  you  this 
morning.  ...  A  thousand  things  poured  into  my 
mind.  It  seemed  finally  as  if  everything  was  wrong  be 
tween  us ;  as  if  I  had  already  remained  too  long  from 
you.  It  was  like  fighting  devils.  .  .  .  And  then  I 
tried  to  beat  the  letter  to  you,  but  it  got  here  by  an 
earlier  train  this  morning." 

He  was  like  a  child  to  her,  telling  about  something 
that  had  frightened  him. 

Their  silences  were  strained.  His  eyes  had  a  sleep 
less  look.  Betty  saw  it  working  upon  him — the  repulsion 


228  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

that  had  gone  from  her.  She  wished  she  might  go  to 
his  arms  and  die.  It  suddenly  came  over  her — the  use- 
lessness  of  it  all — the  uselessness  of  being  a  woman,  of 
waiting,  of  final  comprehension — all  for  this  rending. 
.  .  .  Yet  she  saw  what  would  happen  if  she  followed 
her  heart.  He  would  take  her.  There  would  be  a  ra 
diant  season,  for  the  lover  within  him  was  not  less  be 
cause  his  work  was  for  other  men.  But  there  was  also 
within  him  (his  Guardian  had  made  her  believe  it)  her 
rival,  a  solitary  stranger  come  to  the  world  for  service, 
who  would  not  delay  long  to  show  him  how  he  had  be 
trayed  his  real  work,  how  he  had  caged  his  greater  self, 
his  splendid  pinions  useless.  .  .  .  Morning  would 
hear  the  world  calling  for  work  he  could  not  do. 

"There  seem  all  about  me  invisible  restraints." 

This  from  the  letter  of  the  morning — alone  remained 
with  her.  It  expressed  it  all.  The  sentence  uprose  in 
her  mind.  It  was  more  dominant  to  her  than  if  a  father 
had  forbade  his  coming,  or  even  if  by  his  coming  an 
other  was  violated. 

All  the  forbiddings  that  Society  can  bring  against 
desire  are  but  symbols  compared  to  the  invisible  re 
straints  of  a  full  man's  nature.  Men  who  are  held  by 
symbols,  ruled  by  exterior  voices  and  fears,  are  not  fin 
ished  enough  to  be  a  law  unto  themselves.  ...  It 
wasn't  the  terror  of  these  thoughts,  but  tenderness  in 
answer  to  his  hurried  tumble  of  explanation  regarding 
his  coming,  that  had  filled  Betty's  eyes.  He  caught  the 
sparkle  of  a  tear  in  profile,  and  came  to  her. 

"It's  like  creating — visibly,  without  hands,  but  with 
thoughts — creating  a  masterpiece — to  see  the  tears  come 
like  that " 

He  drew  a  chair  to  the  bench  where  she  sat,  her  back 
to  the  piano.  Helen  Quiston  was  away,  as  usual,  for  the 
forenoon. 

"It  is  creating — another  world,"  she  answered 
steadily. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  229 

He  stared  at  her.     She  saw  again  that  sleepless  look. 

"You've  been  a  whole  month  on  a  lofty  ridge — just 
think  of  it — fasting  and  pure  expression  of  self — spir 
itual  self-revelation " 

It  seemed  to  him  there  was  a  suggestion  in  what  she 
said  for  the  new  book. 

"And  now  you  are  down  in  the  meadows  again,"  she 
finished. 

"The  earth-sweet  meadows — with  you." 

He  could  not  know  what  the  words  meant  to  her; 
that  there  was  no  quarter  in  them  for  her.  She  did  not 
belong  to  his  ascents. 

"Somehow  I  always  think  of  you  as  belonging  best 
to  the  evenings,  the  hushed  earth,  the  sweetness  of  the 
rest-time.  You  make  me  remember  what  to  do,  and  how 
to  do  it  well.  Why,  just  now  you  made  me  see  clearly 
for  a  second  what  I  must  do  next.  You  make  me  love 
people  better — when  I  am  close  to  you." 

She  was  not  to  be  carried  away  by  these  givings 
which  would  have  made  many  a  woman  content. 

"Remember,  I  have  had  your  letters  every  day.  You 
are  very  dear  to  me  up  there.  You  have  been  down  in 
the  meadows — and  in  the  caverns — much.  You  are  not 
ready  to  return — even  for  the  evenings.  You  stand  now 
for  austere  purity — for  plain,  ancient,  mother's  knee 
ideals.  You  must  not  delude  yourself.  A  man  must  be 
apart  in  order  to  see.  You  did  not  begin  really  to  live 
— until  you  drew  apart." 

He  felt  her  stripping  his  heart.  His  face  lifted  in 
agony,  and  his  eyes  caught  the  picture  on  the  wall  of 
the  meeting  of  Beatrice  and  Dante.  The  Florentine 
woman  seemed  not  to  touch  the  earth ;  the  poet  was 
awed,  mystic  in  the  fusion  of  their  united  powers.  It 
was  fateful  that  Morning  saw  the  picture  at  this  instant. 

"Look,"  he  said,  "what  the  world  has  from  the  meet 
ing  of  that  man  and  woman — an  immortal  poem !" 

"But  Beatrice  passed  on " 


230  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

"She  became  identified  with  his  greater  power,  Betty. 
She  was  one  with  it " 

"By  passing  on!" 

He  arose  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  and  his  arms  did 
not  relinquish  her. 

"And  you  mean  that  you  would  pass  on?  .  .  . 
You  must  not.  You  must  not.  We  would  both  be  broken 
and  bewildered.  I  love  you.  I  have  come  to  you.  I 
want  to  be  near — and  work  with  you.  I  know  you  all, 
and  shall  love  you  always.  I  have  come  to  you,  and 
I  must  stay — or  you  must  come  with  me " 

Her  resistance  was  broken  for  the  moment.  An  icy 
burden  fell  from  her.  She  clung  to  him,  and  tears  helped 
her. 

They  were  together  again  in  the  studio  that  after 
noon.  Betty  Berry  was  making  tea,  her  strength  re 
newed.  Helen  Quiston  had  come  and  gone.  Morning 
had  been  away  for  an  hour. 

"Strange  man,"  she  said,  "let  us  reason  together. 
.  .  .  You  are  working  now  for  men.  That  is  right, 
but  when  you  are  full  of  power,  when  you  come  really 
into  the  finished  man  you  are  to  be,  and  all  these  hard 
years  have  healed  beyond  the  last  ache — you  will  work 
for  women.  Does  it  sound  strange  from  me,  that  the 
inspiration  of  the  world  to-day  is  with  the  women? 
Why,  it  seems  to  me  that  men  are  caught  in  the  very 
science  of  cruelty.  And  then,  the  women  of  to-day  rep 
resent  the  men  of  the  future.  When  one  of  the  pre- 
parers  of  the  way  brings  his  gospel  to  women,  he  kindles 
the  inspiration  of  the  next  generation.  But  this  fire  can 
only  come  from  the  solitary  heights — never  from  the 
earth-sweet  meadows " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"The  men  who  have  done  the  most  beautiful  verses 
and  stories  about  children — have  had  no  children  of  their 
own.  A  man  cannot  be  the  father  of  his  country  and 


THE    HILL-CABIN  231 

the  father  of  a  house.  The  man  who  must  do  the  great 
est  work  for  women  must  hunger  for  the  vision  of 
Woman,  and  not  be  yoked  with  one.  .  .  .  It  is  so 
clear.  It  is  always  so." 

"All  that  you  say  makes  me  love  you  more, 
Betty- 

"Don't,  dear.  Don't  make  it  harder  for  me.  .  .  . 
It  is  not  I  that  thrills  you.  It  is  my  speaking  of  your 
work  that  fills  your  heart  with  gladness — the  things  you 
feel  to  do— 

"They  are  from  you " 

"Don't  say  that.     It  is  not  true." 

"But  I  never  saw  so  clearly " 

"Then  go  away  with  the  vision.  Oh,  John  Morning, 
you  cannot  listen  to  yourself — with  a  woman  in  the 
room !" 

He  lifted  his  shoulders,  drawing  her  face  to  his.  "I 
was  going  to  say,  you  are  my  wings,"  he  whispered. 
"But  that  is  not  it.  You  are  my  fountain.  I  would 
come  to  you  and  drink " 

"But  not  remain " 

"I  love  your  thoughts,  Betty,  your  eyes  and  lips " 

"Because  you  are  athirst " 

"I  shall  always  be  athirst!" 

"That  is  not  nature." 

He  shuddered. 

"Do  men,  however  athirst — remain  at  the  oases? 
Men  of  strength — would  they  not  long  to  go?  Would 
they  not  remember  the  far  cities  and  the  long,  blinding 
ways  of  the  sun?" 

"But  you  could  go  with  me — "  he  exclaimed. 

"That  is  not  nature!" 

He  was  the  weaker.  "But  you  have  gone  alone  to 
the  far  cities,  and  the  long,  blinding  ways  of  the 
sim " 

"Yes,  alone.  But  with  you — a  time  would  come 
when  I  could  not.  We  are  man  and  woman.  There 


232  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

would  be  little  children.  I  would  stay — and  you  could 
not  leave  them.  .  .  .  Oh,  they  are  not  for  you,  dear. 
They  would  weaken  your  courage.  You  would  love 
them.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  you  would  want  them, 
and  the  mother  again.  .  .  .  The  far  cities  would  not 
hear  you;  the  long,  blinding  ways  of  the  sun  would 
know  you  no  more " 

"Betty,"  he  whispered  passionately,  "how  wonder 
fully  sweet  that  would  be!" 

"Yes  ...  to  the  mother  .  .  .  but  you — I 
can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  You  would  remember  Nineveh, 
that  great  city.  .  .  ." 

Darkness  was  about  them. 

"Betty  Berry — you  would  rather  I  wouldn't  take  the 
train  to  you  again — not  even  when  it  seems  I  cannot  stay 
longer  away?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Betty " 

"Yes.     ..." 

She  left  him  and  crossed  to  the  far  window. 

"Would  you  not  have  me  come  to  you  again — at 
all?" 

She  could  not  hold  the  sentence,  and  her  answer. 
The  room  was  terrible.  It  seemed  filled  with  presences 
that  suffocated  her — that  cared  nothing  for  her.  All  day 
they  had  inspired  her  to  speak  and  answer — and  now 
they  wanted  her  death.  She  moved  to  the  'cello.  Her 
hands  fluttered  along  the  strings — old,  familiar  ways — 
but  making  hardly  a  sound.  ...  If  she  did  not  soon 
speak,  he  would  come  to  her.  She  would  fail  again — the 
touch  of  him,  and  she  would  fail. 

"Betty,  is  there  never  to  be — the  fountain  at  even- 
ing?" 

"You  know — you  know — "  she  cried  out.  Words 
stuck  after  that.  She  had  net  a  thought  to  drive  them. 

He  arose. 


THE    HILL-CABIN  233 

"Don't,"  she  implored.  "Don't  come  to  me!  I  can 
not  bear  it." 

.     .     It  was  his  final  rebellion. 

"I  am  not  a  preparer  of  the  way.  I  have  not  a  mes 
sage.  I  am  sick  of  the  thought.  I  am  just  a  man — and 
I  love  you !" 

At  last  she  made  her  stand,  and  on  a  different  posi 
tion.  "I  could  not  love  you — if  that  were  true." 

She  heard  him  speak,  but  not  the  words.  She  heard 
the  crackling  and  whirring  of  flames.  He  did  not  cross 
the  room.  .  .  .  She  had  risen,  her  arms  groping  to 
ward  him.  She  felt  him  approach,  and  the  flames  were 
farther.  .  .  .  She  must  not  speak  of  flames. 

"You  will  go  away  soon — won't  you  ?"  she  whispered, 
as  he  took  her. 

"Yes,  to-night— 

"Yes — to-night,"  she  repeated. 

She  was  lying  upon  the  couch  in  the  studio,  and  his 
chair  was  beside  her. 

"No,  don't  light  anything — no  light!  .  .  .  It  is 
just  an  hour.  ...  I  could  not  think  of  food  until 
you  go.  But  you  may  bring  me  a  drink  of  water.  On  the 
way  to  the  train,  you  can  have  your  supper.  ...  I 
will  play — play  in  the  dark,  and  think  of  you — as  you 

She  talked  evenly,  a  pause  between  sentences.  There 
was  a  tensity  in  the  formation  of  words,  for  the  whir 
ring  and  crackling  distracted,  dismayed  her.  Her  heart 
was  breaking.  This  she  knew.  When  it  was  finished, 
he  would  be  free.  .  .  .  The  flames  were  louder  and 
nearer,  as  he  left  for  the  drink  of  water.  She  called 
to  him  to  light  a  match,  if  he  wished,  in  the  other  room. 
.  .  .  He  was  in  her  room.  She  knew  each  step,  just 
where.  He  was  there.  It  was  as  if  he  were  finally  ma 
terialized  from  her  thoughts  in  the  night,  her  dreaming 
and  writing  to  him.  His  hand  touched  her  dresser.  She 


234  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

heard  the  running  water  .  .  .  and  then  it  was  all 
red  and  rending  and  breathless,  until  she  felt  the  water 
to  her  lips.  Always,  as  he  came  near,  the  flames  receded. 

And  out  of  all  the  chaos,  the  figure  of  the  craftsman 
had  returned  to  him.  The  world  had  revealed  itself  to 
him  as  never  before  in  the  passage  of  time.  She  had 
given  him  her  very  spirit  that  day,  and  the  strength  of  all 
her  volition  from  the  month  of  brooding  upon  the  con 
ception  of  his  Guardian.  Literally  on  that  day  the  new 
Book  was  conceived,  as  many  a  man's  valorous  work 
has  begun  to  be,  in  a  woman's  house — her  blood  and 
spirit,  its  bounty. 

"This  is  a  holy  place  to  me,  this  room,"  he  said,  the 
agonies  of  silence  broken.  "I  can  feel  the  white  floods 
of  spirit  that  drive  the  world." 

She  did  not  need  to  answer.  She  held  fast  to  her 
self,  lest  something  betray  her.  Darkness  was  salvation. 
All  that  his  Guardian  had  asked  was  in  her  work.  John 
Morning  told  it  off,  sentence  by  sentence.  It  took  her 
life,  but  he  must  not  know.  She  thought  she  would 
die  immediately  after  he  was  gone — but,  strangely,  now 
the  suffering  was  abated.  .  .  .  She  was  helping. 
.  .  .  Was  not  that  the  meaning  of  life — to  give,  to 
help,  to  love?  .  .  .  Someone  had  said  so. 

He  lifted  her,  carried  her  in  his  arms,  talked  and 
praised  her. 

"There's  something  deathlessly  bright  about  you, 
Betty  Berry!"  he  whispered.  "I  am  going — but  we  are 
one !  Don't  you  feel  it  ?  You  are  loving  the  world  from 
my  heart!" 

To  the  door,  but  not  to  the  light,  she  walked  with 
him.  .  .  .  Up  the  stairs  he  strode  a  last  time  to  take 
her  in  his  arms. 

"We  are  one — a  world-loving  one — remember  that!" 

She  did  not  know  why,  but  as  he  kissed  her — she 
thought  of  the  pitcher  broken  at  the  fountain. 

It  was  all  strange  light  and  singing  flame.     .     .     . 


THE    HILL-CABIN  235 

She  was  lost  in  the  hall.  She  laughed  strangely.  .  .  . 
She  must  play  him  on  his  way.  .  .  .  Someone  helped 
her  through  the  raining  light — until  she  could  feel  the 

strings. 


BOOK  III 

THE  BARE-HEADED  MAN 


BOOK  III. 

THE  BARE-HEADED  MAN 


THE  red  head  of  the  little  telephone-miss  bowed 
over  the  switch-board  when  Morning  entered 
Markheim's.  She  colored,  smiled;  all  metropolitan  out 
rages  of  service  forgotten.  Charley  waved  furtively 
from  afar ;  the  door  to  the  inner  office  opened. 

"Well?"  said  the  manager. 

"Well,  Mr.  Markheim?" 

"You  have  come  too  soon." 

"I  said — five  days." 

"We  read  no  play  in  five  days." 

"It  was  left  here  on  that  basis." 

"Nonsense." 

"You  can  give  it  to  me  now." 

"It  is  being  read  now.  Your  title  is  rotten.  The  old 
one  was  better." 

"That  title  will  grow  on  you,"  said  Morning,  who 
began  to  like  the  interview.  "I  shall  come  to  take  the 
play  to-morrow — unless  you  decide  to  keep  it  and  bring 
it  out  this  Fall " 

"Why  did  you  come  to  Markheim  again  ?  Have  you 
tried  all  the  rest?" 

"There  was  something  unfinished  about  our  former 
brush — I  didn't  like  the  feel  of  it.  ...  My  play  is 
done  over  better.  Neither  copy  has  been  submitted — 
except  to  Markheim." 

"Your  play  may  be  as  bad  as  before." 


24o  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

"Yes.    It  looks  better  to  me,  however." 

"You've  got  a  war  play  again " 

"That  first  and  second  act." 

"You  can't  write  war.    This  is  not  war- 


Morning  did  not  realize  the  change  that  had  come 
over  him  until  he  recalled  the  shame  and  rebellion  that 
had  risen  in  his  mind  when  Markheim  had  said  this  be 
fore.  .  .  .  Something  had  come  to  him  from  Duke 
Fallows,  or  from  Betty  Berry,  or  from  the  hill  silences. 
He  was  a  new  creature.  .  .  .  Must  one  be  detached 
somewhat  from  the  world  in  order  to  use  it?  This  was 
his  sense  at  the  moment:  that  he  could  compel  the  mind 
before  him,  reinforced  as  it  was  by  distaste  for  every 
thing  decent,  and  manifesting  the  opinions  of  other  men, 
including  Reever  Kennard's.  There  was  no  irritation 
whatsoever;  no  pride  in  being  a  war-writer,  good  or 
bad.  Markheim's  denial  had  no  significance  in  the  world 
above  or  water  beneath.  He  saw,  however,  that  he  must 
change  Markheim's  idea,  and  that  he  must  do  it  by 
beating  Markheim  in  his  own  particular  zone  of  ac 
tivity. 

There  was  a  certain  fun  in  this.  He  arose  and  stood 
by  the  other's  chair.  The  eye-balls  showed  wider  and 
rolled  heavily.  The  pistol  or  bomb  was  never  far  from 
his  mind.  Morning  looked  down  at  him,  saying  quietly : 

"You  said  something  like  that  before,  and  it  wasn't 
your  opinion — it  was  Reever  Kennard's.  I  don't  object 
to  it  exactly,  but  I  want  to  show  you  something.  You 
know  Reever  Kennard's  paper?" 

Markheim  nodded. 

"You  know  the  World-News  sent  him  out  to  the 
Russo-Japanese  war — big  expense  account,  helpers, 
dress-suits,  and  all  that?" 

"I  know  he  was  there." 

"The  same  managing  editor  who  sent  Reever  Ken- 
nard  out  is  still  on  the  desk.  He  should  be  in  the  office 
now.  The  number  is " 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         241 

Morning'  found  it  for  him  hastily,  and  added:  "You 
call  him  now." 

"I  don't  want  to  call  him  up — 

"But  you'd  better.  Twice  you  said  something  that 
someone  told  you — and  it's  troublesome.  The  short  way 
out  is  to  call  him  now " 

Morning  was  tapping  the  desk  lightly.  Markheim 
reached  for  the  extension  'phone.  Luckily,  the  thing 
was  managed — luckily,  and  through  the  name  of  Mark 
heim. 

"Ask  him  who  did  the  story  of  the  battle  of  Liao- 
yang  for  the  World-News?"  Morning  ordered. 

The  question  was  asked  and  the  answer  came  back. 

"Ask  him  if  it  was  a  good  story — and  how  long." 

It  was  asked  and  answered. 

"Ask  him  if  it  was  conceded  to  be  the  best  story  of 
the  war  published  in  America." 

The  talk  was  extended  this  time,  Markheim  explain 
ing  why  he  asked. 

"What  did  he  say?"  Morning  asked. 

"He  said  it  was  all  right,"  Markheim  granted  pertly. 
"Only  that  there  was  a  very  good  story  from  another 
man  on  Port  Arthur — afterward." 

"That  is  true.  There  was  a  heady  little  chap  got 
into  Port  Arthur — and  came  out  strong.  .  .  .  Now, 
look  here " 

Morning  went  to  the  case  where  a  particularly  recent 
encyclopaedia  was  drawn  forth.  He  referred  to  the  war, 
but  especially  to  the  final  paragraph  of  the  article,  cap- 
tioned  "Bibliography."  .  .  .  His  own  name  and  the 
name  of  his  book  was  cited  as  the  principal  American 
reference.  ...  It  was  all  laughable.  No  one  knew 
better  than  Morning  that  such  action  would  be  silly 
among  real  people. 

"You  don't  see  Reever  Kennard  referred  to,  do  you 
— as  authority  of  war-stuff?  .  .  .  The  point  is  that 
you  play  people  get  so  much  counterfeit  color  and  office- 


242  DOWN   AMONG   MEN 

setting — that  you  naturally  can't  look  authoritatively  on 
the  real  thing.  .  .  .  However,  the  fact  that  I  know 
more  about  the  battle  of  Liaoyang  than  any  other  man 
in  America  would  never  make  a  good  play.  There's  a 
lot  beside  in  this  play — a  lot  more  than  at  first " 

"They  have  your  play  out  now — reading  it,"  Mark- 
heim  observed. 

Morning  added:  "It's  clear  to  you,  isn't  it,  why  Mr. 
Reever  Kennard  didn't  care  for  the  John  Morning 
play ?" 

Markheim's  eyes  gleamed.  This  was  pure  business. 
"You  had  the  goods  and  delivered  it  in  his  own 
office " 

"Exactly " 

"You  bother  me  too  much  about  this  play.  The  title 
is  rotten " 

"You'll  like  that,  when  you  see  Markheim  with  it. 
There's  a  peculiar  thing  about  the  word — it  doesn't  die. 
It  never  rests.  It's  human — divine,  too.  There's  a  cry 
in  it — to  some  happiness,  to  some  sorrow — to  the  many, 
hope.  ...  It  sings.  I  would  rather  have  it  than 
glory.  .  .  .  Listen,  'Markheim  Offers  Compassion' 
— why,  that's  a  God's  business — offering  compas 
sion " 

"You  feel  like  a  song-bird  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Morn- 
ing- 


"I'll  be  back  to-morrow " 

"Too  soon " 

"Can't  help  it.  It's  ready.  It  will  be  the  big  word 
this  Winter.  You  can  read  it  in  an  hour.  I'm  off  to 
morrow — from  Markheim.  The  Winter  will  clear  my 
slate  in  this  office,  whether  you  take  it  or  not " 

"Come  back  at  noon " 

Charley's  sister  looked  up  from  her  pad.  Her  swift 
change  of  expression  to  a  certain  shyness  and  pleasure, 
too,  in  a  sort  of  mutual  secret,  added  to  Morning's  mer 
riment  as  he  left  the  building.  .  .  .  He  wondered  con- 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         243 

tinually  that  afternoon  what  had  come  over  him.  He 
had  not  been  able  to  do  this  sort  of  thing  before.  The 
astonishing  thing  was  his  detachment  from  any  tensity 
of  interest.  It  was  all  right  either  way,  according  to 
his  condition  of  mind.  The  question  was  important: 
Must  a  man  be  aloof  from  the  fogging  ruck  of  accepted 
activities  in  order  to  see  them,  and  to  manage  best 
among  things  as  they  are  ? 

There  was  the  new  book,  too.  Betty  Berry  had  given 
him  the  new  task.  A  splendor  had  come  to  life — even 
with  the  unspeakable  sadness  of  the  ending  of  that  day. 
The  beauty  of  that  day  would  never  die.  Every  phase 
of  her  sacrifice  revealed  a  subtle,  almost  superhuman, 
faith  in  him.  Was  it  this — her  faith  in  him — that  made 
him  so  new  and  so  strong;  that  made  him  know  in  his 
heart  that  if  the  Play  were  right — it  would  go  in  spite 
of  Markheim,  in  spite  of  all  New  York?  And  if  it 
were  not  right,  certainly  he  did  not  want  it  to  go.  .  .  . 
Markheim  and  New  York — he  regarded  them  that  night 
from  his  doorstep ;  then  turned  his  back  to  the  city,  and 
faced  the  west  and  the  woman. 

It  broke  upon  him.  She  was  mothering  him.  She 
was  bringing  to  his  action  all  that  was  real  and  powerful 
— fighting  for  it,  against  every  desire  and  passion  of  her 
own.  Her  wish  for  his  good  was  superior  to  her  own 
wish  for  happiness.  She  gave  him  his  work  and  his 
dreams.  He  knew  not  what  mystery  of  prayer  and  con 
centration  she  poured  upon  him.  .  .  .  This  place  in 
which  she  had  never  been  was  filled  with  her.  The  little 
frail  creature  was  playing  upon  him,  as  upon  her  instru 
ment.  Moments  were  his  in  which  she  seemed  a  mighty 
artist. 

And  then  he  saw  men  everywhere — just  instruments 
— but  played  upon  by  forces  of  discord  and  illusion. 
.  .  .  He  saw  these  men  clearly,  because  he  had  been 
of  them.  Such  forces  had  played  upon  him.  .  .  . 
He  had  been  buffeted  and  whipped  along  the  rough  ways. 


244  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

He  had  looked  up  to  the  slaughterers  of  the  wars  as 
unto  men  of  greatness.  He  had  been  played  upon  by 
the  thirsts  and  the  sufferings,  by  greed  and  ambition.  He 
had  hated  men.  He  had  fumed  at  bay  before  imagined 
wrongs ;  and  yet  no  one  had  nor  could  wrong  him,  but 
himself. 

One  by  one  he  had  been  forced  to  fight  it  out  with 
his  own  devils — to  the  last  ditch.  There  they  had  quit — 
vanished  like  puffs  of  nasty  smoke.  He  had  stood  be 
neath  Reever  Kennard,  almost  poisoning  himself  to 
death  with  hatred.  Pure  acknowledgment  this,  that  his 
life  moved  in  the  same  scope  of  evil.  .  .  .  He  had 
accepted  the  power  of  Markheim,  feared  it,  and  suffered 
over  the  display  of  it.  Now  he  found  it  puny  and 
laughable.  He  had  worked  for  himself,  and  it  had 
brought  him  only  madness  and  shattering  of  force.  He 
had  been  brought  to  death,  had  accepted  it  in  its  most 
hideous  form — and  risen  over  it.  ...  His  hill  was 
calm  and  sweet  in  the  dusk.  Though  his  heart  was 
lonely — and  though  all  this  clear-seeing  seemed  not  so 
wonderful  as  it  would  be  to  have  the  woman  with  him 
in  the  cabin — yet  it  was  all  very  good.  He  felt  strong, 
his  fighting  force  not  abated. 

He  had  his  work.  She  had  shown  him  that.  He 
would  write  every  line  to  her.  His  work  would  lift  him 
up,  as  the  days  of  the  Play  had  lifted  him — out  of  the 
senses  and  the  usual  needs  of  man.  He  would  be  with 
her,  in  that  finer  communion  of  instrument  and  artist. 
.  .  .  The  world  was  very  old  and  dear.  Men's  hearts 
were  troubled,  but  men's  evils  were  very  trifling,  when 
all  was  understood.  He  would  never  forget  his  lessons. 
He  would  tell  everyone  what  miracles  are  performed  in 
the  ministry  of  pain.  .  .  .  He  looked  into  the  dark 
of  the  west  and  loved  her. 

"Well,  you  are  on  time,"  said  Markheim  the  follow 
ing  noon. 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         245 

"Yes,"  Morning  said  with  calmness  and  cheer. 

"We  will  take  the  play.  I  have  had  it  read.  .  .  . 
We  can  do  no  more  than  bust." 

"This  Fall— the  production?" 

"I  will  give  it  the  Markheim  in  November." 

He  seemed  to  be  surprised  that  Morning  did  not 
emotionalize  in  some  way.  He  had  expected  at  least  to 
be  informed  that  "bust"  was  out  of  the  question,  and 
missed  this  mannerism  of  the  playwright,  now  that  the 
thing  was  his  and  not  the  other's.  .  .  .  Moreover, 
Markheim  was  pleased  with  the  way  he  had  reached  the 
decision.  He  wanted  Morning  to  know. 

"There  was  that  difference  of  opinion.  .  .  .  Do 
you  know  what  I  did?" 

Morning  couldn't  imagine. 

"Well,"  said  Markheim,  sitting  back,  hands  patting 
his  girth,  "those  who  have  nothing  but  opinions — read 
your  play.  They  like  it ;  they  like  it  not.  It  will  pay. 
It  will  not  pay.  It  is  'revolutionary,'  'artistic,'  'well- 
knit/  'good  second  act' — much  rot  it  is,  and  is  not.  Who 
do  you  think  settle  the  question?" 

"Yourself?" 

"Not  me — I  have  no  opinion." 

"Who  then?" 

"The  friend  of  no  man."     It  was  said  with  grandeur. 

Morning  waited. 

Markheim  leaned  forward,  beaming  not  unkindly, 
and  whispered : 

"The  little  one  at  the  switch-board  outside  the  door. 
She  said  it  was  'lovely.'  .  .  .  Oh,  she's  a  sharp  lit 
tle  spider/' 


HERE  is  an  extra  bit  of  the  fabric,  that  goes  along 
with   the   garment    for   mending.     .     .     .     Mid- 
May,  and  never  a  sign  of  the  old  wound's  reopening. 
Something  of  Morning's  former  robustness  had  spent 


246  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

itself,  but  he  had  all  the  strength  a  man  needs,  and  that 
light  unconsciousness  of  the  flesh  which  is  delightful  to 
those  who  produce  much  from  within.  The  balance  of 
his  forces  of  development  had  turned  from  restoring  his 
body  to  a  higher  replenishment. 

The  mystery  of  work  broke  upon  him  more  and 
more,  and  the  thrall  of  it ;  its  relation  to  man  at  his  best ; 
the  cleansing  of  a  man's  daily  life  for  the  improvement 
of  his  particular  expression  in  the  world's  service;  the 
ordering  of  his  daily  life  in  pure-mindedness,  the  power 
of  the  will  habitually  turned  to  the  achieving  of  this 
pure-mindedness.  He  saw  that  man  is  only  true  and  at 
peace  when  played  upon  from  the  spiritual  source  of 
life;  therefore,  all  that  perfects  a  man's  instrumentation 
is  vital,  and  all  that  does  not  is  destructive.  Most  im 
portant  of  all,  he  perceived  that  a  real  worker  has  noth 
ing  whatever  to  do  beyond  the  daily  need,  with  the  result 
of  his  work  in  a  worldly  way ;  that  any  deep  relation  to 
wordly  results  of  a  man's  work  is  contamination. 

He.  lost  the  habit  and  inclination  to  think  what  he 
wanted  to  say.  He  listened.  He  became  sceptical  of 
all  work  that  came  from  brain,  in  the  sense  of  having 
its  origin  in  something  he  had  actually  learned.  He  re 
membered  how  Fallows  had  spoken  of  this  long  ago; 
(he  had  not  listened  truly  enough  to  understand  then)  ; 
how  a  man's  brain  is  at  his  best  when  used  purely  to 
receive — as  a  little  finer  instrument  than  the  type 
writer. 

Except  for  certain  moments  on  the  borderland  of 
sleep,  Betty  Berry  was  closest  to  him  during  his  work. 
His  every  page  was  for  her  eye — a  beloved  revelation 
of  his  flesh  and  mind  and  spirit.  And  the  thing  had  to 
be  plain,  plain,  plain.  That  was  the  law. 

How  Fallows  had  fought  for  that.  "Don't  forget  the 
deepest  down  man,  John!"  .  .  .  Betty  Berry  and 
Fallows  and  Nevin  were  his  angels — his  cabin,  a  place  of 
continual  outpouring  to  them.  Few  evils  were  powerful 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         247 

enough  to  stem  such  a  current,  and  penetrate  the  glad 
ness  of  giving. 

He  slept  lightly,  and  was  on  the  verge  again  and 
again,  almost  nightly,  in  fact,  of  surprising  his  own 
greater  activity  that  does  not  sleep.  He  often  brought 
back  just  the  murmur  of  these  larger  doings;  and  on 
the  borderlands  he  sometimes  felt  himself  in  the  throb 
of  that  larger  consciousness  which  moves  about  its  med 
itations  and  voyagings,  saying  to  the  body,  "Sleep  on." 
It  was  this  larger  consciousness  that  used  him  as  he 
used  the  typewriter,  when  he  was  writing  at  his  best  and 
his  listening  was  pure.  .  .  .  He  had  been  held  so 
long  to  the  ruck  that  he  would  never  forget  the  parlance 
of  the  people — and  not  fall  to  writing  for  visionaries. 

.  .  .  One  night  he  dreamed  he  went  to  Betty 
Berry.  .  .  .  He  was  ascending  the  stairs  to  her. 
She  seemed  smaller,  frailer.  Though  he  was  a  step  or 
two  down,  his  eyes  met  hers  equally.  She  was  lovelier 
than  anything  he  had  ever  known  or  conceived  in 
woman.  Her  smile  was  so  wistful  and  sweet  and  com 
passionate — that  the  hush  and  fervor  of  it  seemed  every 
where  in  the  world.  There  was  a  shyness  in  her  lips 
and  in  the  turn  of  her  head.  Some  soft  single  garment 
was  about  her — as  if  she  had  come  from  a  fountain  in 
the  evening.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  there  was  a  great 
tumult  within  him.  He  was  lost  in  the  battle  of  two 
selves — the  man  who  loved  and  destroyed,  and  the  man 
who  loved  and  sustained. 

The  greater  love  only  asked  her  there — loved  her 
there,  exquisite,  apart,  found  in  her  a  theme  for  infinite 
contemplation,  as  she  stood  smiling.  .  .  .  The  other 
was  the  love  of  David,  when  he  looked  across  the  house 
tops  at  Bathsheba,  bathing,  and  made  her  a  widow  to 
mother  Solomon.  This  human  love  was  strong  in  the 
dream,  for  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed,  and 
would  not  let  her  go,  until  her  voice  at  last  reached  his 
understanding. 


248  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

"Oh,  why  did  you  spoil  it  all?  Oh,  why — when  I 
thought  it  was  safe  to  come?" 

He  had  no  words,  but  her  message  was  not  quite 
ended : 

"I  should  have  come  to  you  as  before — and  not  this 
way — but  you  seemed  so  strong  and  so  pure.  .  .  . 
It  is  my  fault — all  my  fault." 

She  was  Betty  Berry — but  lovelier  than  all  the  earth 
— the  spirit  of  all  his  ideals  in  woman.  The  marvelous 
thing  about  it  was  that  he  knew  after  the  dream  that 
this  was  the  Betty  Berry  that  would  live  in  spite  of  any 
thing  that  could  happen  to  the  Betty  Berry  in  the  world. 
He  knew  that  she  waited  for  him — for  the  greater  lover, 
John  Morning,  whose  love  did  not  destroy,  but  sus 
tained.  .  .  .  She  who  regarded  him  in  "the  hush  of 
expectancy"  from  the  distance  of  a  night's  journey,  and 
he  who  labored  here  stoutly  in  the  work  of  the  world, 
were  but  names  and  symbols  of  the  real  creatures  above 
the  illusion  of  time.  .  .  .  So  he  came  to  love  death 
— not  with  eagerness,  but  as  an  ideal  consummation. 
Such  a  result  were  impossible  had  he  not  faced 
death  as  an  empty  darkness  first,  and  overcome  the  fear 
of  it. 

These  many  preparations  for  real  life  on  earth  in  the 
flesh  he  was  to  put  in  his  book — not  his  adventures,  but 
the  fruits  of  them — how  he  had  reached  to-day,  and  its 
decent  polarity  in  service.  He  had  been  hurled  like  a 
top  into  the  midst  of  men.  After  the  seething  of  wild 
energy  and  the  wobblings,  he  had  risen  to  a  certain  sing 
ing  and  aspiring  rhythm — the  whir  of  harmony.  He 
told  the  story  in  order,  day  by  day.  Though  it  was  done 
with  the  I's,  there  was  no  self-exploitation.  John  Morn 
ing  was  merely  the  test-tube,  containing  from  time  to 
time  different  compounds  of  experience.  And  he  did  it 
plainly,  plainly,  plainly,  as  is  the  writer's  business. 

As  he  watched  for  Jethro,  one  morning  early  in  June, 
he  perceived  a  second  figure  in  the  old  rig.  At  the  box, 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         249 

the  stranger  got  out  and  followed  Jethro's  arm,  directed 
up  the  hill  toward  the  cabin,  disappeared  for  a  moment 
in  the  swail-thicket  by  the  fence,  and  presently  began 
the  ascent,  bringing  Morning's  papers  and  letters. 
.  .  .  The  stranger  was  tall  and  tanned,  wore  a  wide 
hat  and  approached  with  a  slim  ease  of  movement. 
Morning  knew  he  had  seen  him  before,  but  could  not 
remember  until  the  voice  called : 

"Hullo — that  you,  John  Morning?" 

It  was  Archibald  Calvert,  last  met  during  the  night- 
halt  in  Rosario,  Luzon,  the  correspondent  who  had  rid 
den  with  Reever  Kennard,  and  who  had  lost  Mio  Amiga. 
He  had  always  thought  rather  pleasantly  of  Archibald 
Calvert  when  he  thought  at  all. 

"Say — what  are  you  getting  set  for  out  here?" 

"It's  better  and  cheaper  than  a  hall-bedroom,"  Morn 
ing  answered. 

"That  sounds  good.  .  .  .  Well,  I  spent  all  day 
yesterday  looking  for  you — first  clue,  Boabdil — second  at 
Markheim's  from  a  little  red-haired  girl.  .  .  .  The 
rural  man  picked  me  up 

"I've  got  some  cold  buttermilk- 


"Pure  asceticism — also  a  pearl  of  an  idea " 

They  sat  down  together. 

"So  you  made  ten  thousand  dollars  out  of  Liaoyang 
after  you  came  back.  ...  I  looked  up  the  story. 
It  was — say,  it  was  a  bride,  Morning!" 

"Thanks.  Duke  Fallows  did  a  better  one  in  one- 
tenth  the  space.  The  pay-end  didn't  mean  much.  I'm 
not  a  good  bed  for  money  culture.  Tell  me  where  you've 
been,  Mr.  Calvert." 

"Oh,  I've  been  around.  Didn't  get  up  to  the  Russ- 
Jap  stuff.  I  was  down  among  the  Pacific  Islands.  You 
know  I'm  a  better  tramp  than  writer.  It's  five  years 
since  I  hit  New  York.  .  .  .  They  say  old  Reever 
Kennard  is  doing  politics.  He'll  be  back  from  Wash 
ington  to-night " 


250  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

"Politics,  and  an  occasional  dramatic  criticism,"  said 
Morning. 

"You  know  that  never  sat  easy — that  day  in  Ro- 
sario " 

"Didn't  it?" 

"I  was  down  to  Batangas  three  days  later — unpack 
ing  saddle-bags,  and  found  Mio  Amiga  No.  i.  Deeper 
down  I  found  its  mate.  .  .  .  They're  common  in 
Luzon  as  old  Barlow  knives  when  we  were  kids.  .  . 
I  made  a  scene  about  that  knife — with  my  own  deep 
down  in  my  own  duffel.  ...  I  suppose  you've  for 
gotten." 

"No— I  haven't." 

"You  were  pretty  decent  about  it.  It  was  a  nasty  thing 
— even  to  speak  about  it  as  I  did.  You  see,  the  inscrip 
tion  rather  appealed  to  kid-intelligence  in  my  case,  and  I 
thought  it  was  unique,  instead  of  the  popular  idea  of  a 
cheap  Filipino  knife." 

"Kennard  took  it  seriously,  didn't  he?"  said   Morning. 

"You  mean  at  the  time  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  couldn't  un 
derstand  that  exactly." 

Morning  decided  not  to  speak  of  that  day's  relation 
to  Tokyo  five  years  later. 

"Well,"  said  Calvert,  after  a  pause,  "I  hunted  you  up 
to  say  I  was  an  ass,  and  to  give  you  back  your  knife. 
The  pair  have  been  smelling  up  my  things  around  the 
world  for  a  long  time." 

Morning  grasped  it  eagerly. 

Some  time  afterward,  when  Calvert  arose  to  go, 
Morning  ventured  this  much  : 

"And  so  you're  going  to  see  Reever  Kennard?" 

"Yes,  to-night.  ...  I  suppose  you  two  and  the 
others  game  together  from  time  to  time?" 

"The  fact  is,  New  York  isn't  very  good  anchorage 
for  that  sort  of  thing,"  Morning  said. 

"...  I  was  glad  when  they  told  me  you  had  put 
ever  that  big  Liaoyang  stuff,  Morning " 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         251 

Morning  smiled  and  took  the  quick  brown  hand  of  the 
other.  Calvert  appealed  to  him,  but  it  couldn't  be 
shown  in  any  way.  Calvert  was  like  a  good  horse, 
gladly  giving  evidence  of  fine  feeling,  but  embarrassed 
when  made  much  of.  ...  He  went  away  blithely — • 
off,  for  God  knows  where — but  fearlessly  on  his 
way. 

Morning  held  the  little  knife  in  his  hand. 

He  thought  of  that  hard  Philippine  service  which  had 
seemed  so  big  at  the  time ;  of  that  day  when  he  watched 
the  fat  shoulders  of  Reever  Kennard  in  the  forward  sets 
of  horse,  Kennard  seeming  all  that  greatness  can  be.  He 
thought  of  the  halt  in  Rosario,  of  the  lame  woman.  He 
looked  at  the  little  knife  again.  .  .  .  He  had  not 
really  wanted  it  then,  and  yet  it  had  cut  the  strings  of 
his  Fates,  turning  them  loose  upon  him.  It  had  knocked 
him  out  of  the  second  Japanese  column  five  years  after 
ward,  and  given  him  instead  Duke  Fallows  and  Liao- 
yang.  It  had  given  him  that  great  battle,  Lowenkampf, 
the  Ploughman,  Eve,  the  sorrel  mare — the  journey  to 
Koupangtse — the  blanket  at  Tongu — the  deck-pas 
sage — the  Sickles,  Ferry — and  Nevin — even  Noyes  and 
Field. 

It  had  given  him  the  Armory,  and  Betty  Berry. 

He  held  it  fast. 

It  had  given  him  money,  fame,  and  New  York  for  a 
day — the  opinion  from  Kennard  that  killed  the  first  writ 
ing  of  Compassion — the  mood  to  see  Charley  and  his  sis 
ter  at  the  switch-board,  which  brought  him  to  Betty 
Berry  again.  .  .  .  Out  of  these  had  come  all  that 
was  real  and  true  of  this  hour.  It  had  given  him  the 
slums  and  the  leper  conflict — Nevin's  cure  and  the  fasting 
— the  real  Ploughman — the  better  Compassion — the 
cabin  in  which  he  sat,  his  place  of  Initiation.  It  had 
given  him  the  triumph  over  death — the  illumination  of 
love  and  labor — the  listening  life  of  the  soul,  and  the 
vision  of  its  superb  immortality. 


252  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

He  held  it  fast  and  looked  hard  at  the  little  friend. 
The  brass  handle  sent  up  a  smell  of  verdi-gris  from  his 
hot  hand. 


THIS  was  John  Morning's  splendid  summer.  He 
was  up  often  at  two  or  three  in  the  morning. 
Thoughts  and  sentences  of  yesterday,  now  cleared  and 
improved,  thronged  his  mind,  as  he  made  coffee.  He 
learned  that  a  man  may  write  the  first  half  of  a  book, 
but  be  used  as  a  mere  slave  of  the  last  half.  And  yet, 
to  be  the  instrument  of  a  rush  of  life  and  ideas,  the  lat 
ter  becoming  every  hour  more  coherent  and  effective, 
was  a  privilege  to  make  a  man  sing.  And  to  increase, 
at  the  same  time,  in  the  realization  of  the  courage  and 
tenderness  and  faith  of  a  woman  who  waited ;  to  feel  the 
power  of  her  in  the  work ;  to  work  for  her ;  to  put  his 
love  for  her  in  the  work,  all  the  strength  of  her  attrac 
tion — this  was  living  the  life  of  depth  and  fullness. 

Times  when  he  looked  out  of  the  doorway,  and  the 
elms  were  shaping  against  the  flowery  purple  of  day 
break,  and  the  robin  beginning  thirstily — his  eyes 
smarted  with  tears  at  the  beauty  of  it  all,  the  privilege 
of  work,  and  the  absolute  Tightness  of  the  whole  crea 
tion,  in  which  a  man  can't  possibly  lose,  after  he  has 
heard  his  real  self  speak.  He  loved  life  and  death  in 
such  moments,  and  knew  there  was  a  Betty  Berry  in  the 
waiting  studio,  and  another  over  the  Crossing.  (Had 
he  not  glimpsed  her  in  his  dream  at  the  top  of  the  stair 
way?) 

So  his  book  prospered,  enfolding  the  common  man. 
It  had  something  for  every  man  who  had  not  come  so 
far  as  he.  He  was  of  them,  in  every  understanding 
among  them,  different  only  in  that  it  was  his  business  to 
write  by  the  way.  His  old  failures  furnished  the  studies 
of  distintegrating  forces.  Personally,  he  was  detached 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         253 

from  them,  as  his  writing  showed,  except  for  an  intel 
lectual  familiarity — as  detached  as  from  the  worn  cloth 
ing  he  had  left  here  and  there  around  the  world.  One 
by  one,  the  constructive  and  destructive  principles  of  the 
average  man  were  shown  divided  against  each  other  in 
the  arena  of  mind — and  how  the  friends  and  loves  had 
come  to  the  balance.  Nevin  was  in  the  fabric,  the  little 
Englishman  at  Tongu,  Fallows  and  the  Woman — not  in 
name,  (there  was  no  name  but  John  Morning's),  but 
they  were  all  there,  lifting  and  laughing  and  drawing, 
as  friends  and  loves  do  in  the  life  of  a  man.  Again  and 
again  he  cried  out  that  the  peace  and  sweet  reason  of 
things  he  had  found  was  of  their  bringing — that  with 
out  them  he  would  have  been  lost  again  and  again  by 
the  way. 

.  .  .  The  Summer  days  passed  magically.  Mark- 
heim  was  beginning  to  talk  rehearsals.  He  had  found 
the  right  man  to  play  the  Ploughman.  .  .  .  Late- 
September.  The  letters  from  Betty  Berry  were  rarer, 
thinner.  They  troubled  him.  .  .  .  One  morning  he 
watched  Jethro's  rig  approach — a  golden  morning,  and 
the  cattle  were  feeding  down  in  the  meadow.  He  had 
seen  the  picture  a  thousand  times — the  cattle  on  the  slope 
— yet  it  was  never  so  real  to  him,  nor  had  he  hungered 
for  the  face  of  Betty  Berry  as  now.  .  .  .  Jethro 
stopped  at  his  box,  and  he  hurried  down.  There  was  a 
letter  from  her — and  one  from  Russia,  too.  The  first 
did  not  free  his  mind  from  sorrow — though  the  effort 
was  plain  to  do  this  very  thing.  .  .  .  The  letter  from 
Fallows  filled  the  day : 

"...  I  knew,  John,  if  I  sat  down  to  write,  it 
would  set  free  all  my  longing  to  go  back  to  you.  So  I 
have  put  it  off  from  week  to  week.  .  .  .  From  the 
Western  States  I  followed  our  old  trail  to  Tokyo,  then 
via  Peking,  to  Shanhaikwan,  Koupangtse,  Liaoyang. 
.  .  .  I  stopped  there,  and  went  around  by  the  coal 
fields,  where  the  millet  had  been  planted  all  over  again. 


254  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

I  talked  over  the  battle  with  the  Japanese.  They  are 
just  as  interested  as  ever  in  what  the  other  man  knows. 
Though  the  big  battle  seemed  like  another  life  to  me,  it 
was  their  immediate  yesterday.  They  would  do  it  all 
over  again.  The  Ploughman  seemed  to  walk  with  me ; 
the  rest  was  boyish  babble.  ...  I  found  Lowen- 
kampf — white  and  quiet — but  the  woman  loves  him,  if 
Russia  does  not.  The  little  boy  is  a  man-soul.  That's 
the  story — except  that  he  sent  his  love  to  you.  The 
three  are  off  to  South  America,  and  all  is  well.  .  .  . 
Up  in  the  Bosk  hills,  I  followed  the  Summer.  The  old 
man  is  gone.  He  had  his  sausages  at  the  last.  .  .  . 

"I  was  needed,  but  the  little  farm  was  all  right.  The 
neighbor  had  done  his  part.  There  was  enough  for  all. 
.  .  .  How  simple,  one  little  vanity  of  a  man  such  as 
I  am,  and  this  family  has  enough  and  to  spare ;  food  and 
firelight,  good-will,  their  hope  of  heaven  brought  down 
to  comprehension  again — all  for  so  little,  John.  If  men 
only  knew  the  joy  of  it — how  it  lasts  and  augments,  how 
it  sustains  the  man  who  does  it — to  weave  a  mesh  of 
happiness  for  the  poor.  The  fact  is,  he  has  to  watch 
very  carefully,  or  he'll  get  caught  in  the  mesh  himself. 

"The  little  boy  came  running  to  meet  me.  I  think 
he  ran  to  meet  me  somewhere  before.  He  is  different 
from  all  the  others — except  for  that  touch  of  the  old 
mother  which  he  has,  and  that  something  about  the 
Ploughman.  He  was  white  and  all  eyes  when  I  picked 
him  up.  They  said  he  wasn't  well,  but  in  three  days  he 
was  sound  again — color  breaking  through.  To  think 
that  my  coming  could  do  that  for  any  living  soul — I. 

"The  old  Mother.  .  .  .  She  was  just  waiting  for 
me — lingering  until  I  came — watching  down  the  road  in 
the  sunlight.  We  talked  a  little.  She  spoke  softly  of 
her  soldier-son.  It  was  only  a  few  days.  ...  It  all 
came  from  her,  John — the  battle  of  Liaoyang  so  far  as 
its  meaning  to  me.  She  was  the  light  on  the  Plough 
man's  brow  that  made  a  different  man  of  me.  He  never 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         255 

dreamed  of  messages  to  the  world  of  men,  nor  the  pas 
sion  to  serve  men — but  he  had  his  mother's  faith  and 
something-  of  her  vision.  That  made  him  different  from 
other  Russian  soldiers,  so  that  I  could  see.  The  little 
boy  Jan  will  bring  it  to  life  again.  Your  play  goes 
straight  back  to  her.  There's  everlasting  quality  in  being 
a  mother  like  that.  I  think  it  was  the  fourth  morning — 
that  I  suddenly  began  to  listen  attentively  to  what  she 
was  saying.  It  was  about  us  all — intimately  about  her 
soldier-son.  .  .  .  The  younger  mother  came  in — her 
sad,  weary  face  different.  .  .  .  She  went  out,  and 
returned  with  her  shoes  on.  .  .  .  Suddenly  I  knew 
that  the  old  sweet  flower  was  passing.  Why,  she  was 
gone  before  I  knew  it — smiling  up  at  the  saints  from 
my  arms.  ...  I  heard  the  little  boy  coming  quickly 
— knew  his  step  as  I  would  know  yours,  John.  I  seemed 
to  wait  for  his  hand  upon  the  door.  I  saw  him,  and  he 
saw  us — came  forward  on  tip-toe,  and  we  were  all  to 
gether " 

Morning  didn't  read  the  rest  just  then.  It  seemed 
one  of  the  finest  things  he  had  ever  known — Duke  Fal 
lows  preserving  the  old  mother  and  the  others  in  their 
conviction  that  he  was  just  a  peasant  like  the  Ploughman. 


FROM  that  April  night  after  Morning  left,  when 
Helen  Quiston  found  her  wandering  in  the  halls, 
and  asking  in  a  childish  way  to  be  taken  to  the  'cello 
(saying  that  her  father  had  hidden  it  from  her  in  a 
strange  place),  until  now  in  mid-September,  Betty  Berry 
had  not  left  the  studio-apartment.  The  real  break-down 
had  begun  a  month  before  the  high  day  in  which  Morn 
ing  came ;  perhaps  on  the  very  night  his  Guardian  had 
called.  She  had  scarcely  played  or  practiced  since  then ; 
she  read  nothing,  talked  to  no  one  except  Helen.  Morn- 


256  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

ing  had  noted  her  anxiously  early  on  the  day  of  his  call 
at  the  studio,  but  such  power  had  come  in  the  flashes  of 
those  hours,  and  so  high  was  she  enthroned  and  illumined 
in  his  own  mind  at  the  end,  (in  which  she  had  kept  to  the 
darkness),  that  he  had  not  realized  the  blight  that  had 
touched  her  life. 

Helen  Quiston  had  long  loved  the  woman.  She  knew 
much  that  the  Doctor  did  not.  It  was  she  who  read  the 
letters  which  in  certain  moments  of  the  day  Betty  hastily 
penned.  It  was  as  if  for  a  moment  in  a  long  gray  day,  a 
ray  of  watery  sunlight  broke  through  the  cloud-banks. 
In  the  momentary  shining  of  her  mind,  Betty  would 
write  to  Morning.  Many  of  the  letters  were  impossible. 
Certain  of  these  letters  would  have  brought  the  lover 
by  the  first  train.  Even  Betty  had  a  sense  of  this  and 
relied  upon  the  music-teacher.  Here  and  there  among 
the  notes,  too,  was  a  wisp  of  the  old  sweet  spirit.  It 
was  a  wonderful  conception  to  Helen  Quiston :  that  all 
but  these  had  gone  to  replenish  the  creative  fire  of  a 
lover  who  knew  well  what  his  lady  had  given,  but  not 
what  it  meant  to  her.  Just  as  surely  as  the  Hindoo 
woman  offers  herself  upon  the  funeral  pyre  with  the  body 
of  her  mate,  Betty  Berry  had  given  her  spirit  to  the  liv 
ing.  A  hundred  times  the  singing  teacher  had  heard 
these  words  from  white  lips  that  smiled : 

"We  are  one — a  deathless,  world-loving  one!" 
And  often  she  heard  this  queer  verse  from  the  Per 
sian: 

"Four  eyes  met.     There  were  changes  in  two  souls. 
rAnd  now  I  cannot  remember  whether  he  is  a  man  and  I 

a  woman, 

Or  he  a  woman  and  I  a  man.    All  I  know  is, 
There  were  two:  Love  came,  and  there  is  one.     .    .    ." 

"Don't  forget  to  remind  me  that  I  must  tell  him  I 
am  happy,"  Betty  would  say.  .  .  .  When  a  letter 
was  finally  finished  and  sealed,  she  would  lean  back,  shut 
ting  her  eyes  with  a  sigh,  saying:  "Now  read  me  his 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         257 

that  came  to-day  and  yesterday."  .  .  .  And  after 
ward:  "Isn't  it  wonderful,  Helen,  dear?  Isn't  it  quite 
wonderful?  You  are  so  dear  to  understand." 

''Self-destruction  is  the  first  danger,"  the  Doctor  had 
said  in  the  early  days.  "That's  why  she  should  be  in  a 
sanatorium  under  professional  vigilance.  Each  case  is 
individual.  She  might  take  a  sudden  dislike  to  the  saint- 
liest  of  nurses — even  to  you.  The  fever  will  not  last,  but 
it  is  a  long  battle.  Shock,  overwork,  a  terrible  disap 
pointment — such  are  the  causes.  Singular  sweetness  of 
disposition,  as  in  this  case,  is  very  rare.  The  thing  that 
goes  with  this  usually  is  'the  frozen  stare' — hours  mo 
tionless,  looking  at  the  wall " 

Morning's  letters  were  like  white-hot  fragments  from 
his  forge — roughly  fashioned,  but  still  seething  with 
force.  Helen  Quiston  felt  that  there  was  a  splendid 
singing  in  that  forge ;  that  a  man's  voice  attuned  with 
God  and  the  world  was  raised  in  the  morning;  that 
silence  drew  on  as  the  concentration  of  the  task  deep 
ened  ;  that  there  was  singing  in  the  evening  again.  Ali 
ment  for  the  soul  of  the  music  teacher,  these  letters.  She 
would  have  fought  to  obey  Betty  Berry  against  the  will 
of  the  Doctor  and  nurse  had  it  been  necessary. 

One  of  these  September-morning  letters  was  par 
ticularly  joyous  with  enthusiasm  for  Betty  Berry's  gift 
to  him.  He  told  again  how  it  wove  into,  beautified  and 
energized  his  work. 

"Literally  I  thank  the  stars  for  you,"  Helen  Quiston 
read.  "Sometimes  it  comes  to  me — as  if  straight  from 
you — strength  that  I  feel  with  my  limbs,  strength  that 
means  health.  It  surges  through  my  veins  like  magic — 
so  that  my  eyes  smart  with  tears.  I  speak  your  name 
again  and  again  in  thankfulness  for  love  fresh  every  day, 
and  for  the  pity  for  men  in  my  heart 

Betty  was  not  following.  It  was  frequently  so  in  the 
first  reading. 


258  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

"Free,"  she  repeated  softly,  from  a  thought  of  yes 
terday's  letter.  "He  said  I  was  free.  He  said  I  never 
explained " 

"Yes,  dear,  he  was  writing  of  that  night  he  came  to 
the  theatre.  I'll  get  the  letter  for  you  to-night.  He 
said  that  you  belonged  to  the  risen  world,  the  woman's 
world — that  you  trusted  your  vision — did  not  seek  to 
explain,  but  rejoiced.  He  said  you  had  no  guile,  that 
you  asked  nothing,  and  were  unafraid.  He  means  to 
give  the  world  a  portrait  of  the  risen  woman — a  por 
trait  of  you." 

Betty  Berry  did  not  answer.  Mention  of  that 
night  at  the  theatre  invariably  affected  her  to  si 
lence. 

"I  must  hurry  away  for  a  little  while,  but  I  will  finish 
this,"  Helen  added,  reading  on : 

"In  the  evenings,  the  greater  power  of  you  comes 
over  my  life  like  a  spiritual  rain.  I  remember  the  art  of 
your  hands,  the  sweet  mystery  of  your  lips ;  the  tender 
ness  of  your  eyes  and  words ;  but  over  it  all — the  inner 
power  of  you,  strong  as  truth,  pure  as  truth,  wise  as  the 
East,  and  sweet  as  the  South.  It  is  the  spirit  of  you 
that  has  come  to  me — your  singing,  winging,  feminine 
spirit.  It  has  made  me  whole.  .  .  .  Do  you  know, 
I  used  to  think  the  world  would  be  made  better  by  force, 
by  arraignment,  by  revelation  of  evil.  You  have  shown 
me  the  better  way  of  making  the  world  better  by  loving 
it.  That's  woman's  way,  the  Christ's  way.  .  .  .  And 
when  I  think  that  you  have  given  me  this  blessed  thing, 
this  finest  fruit  of  earth — your  love,  created  out  of  trial 
and  loneliness,  your  love,  so  pure  and  true  and  valorous 
— when  I  think  that  it  is  mine,  and  how  you  fought 
through  the  long  day  to  give  me  this,  and  only  this — 
when  I  think  of  the  splendor  of  that  day's  work  of  yours, 
I  kneel  to  you,  and  to  the  spirit  of  the  world — in  the 
wood,  in  the  hut,  before  the  door,  under  my  elms,  under 
the  stars, — I  kneel  to  you  and  the  Source  of  you.  The 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         259 

peace  that  comes,  and  the  power — this,  is  my  passionate 
wish  for  you!     I  would  restore  it  to  you  magnified." 

Helen  Quiston  read  all  this  a  second  time  that  Sep 
tember  morning',  although  her  pupils  were  waiting. 
.  .  .  It  was  to  her  like  the  song  from  a  strong  man's 
house. 

''You  are  rich  and  elect,  Betty !"  she  cried.  "You 
have  been  a  woman  and  zuanted  love.  You  have  finished 
your  work  at  night,  alone,  and  realized  that  there  was 
no  one — your  arms  tired,  your  throat  tired,  your  brain 
and  soul  tired  and  heart-lonely — and  there  was  no  one. 
How  rich  you  are  now  !  I  think  a  woman  is  rich  who  can 
say :  'In  London  or  Tokyo  or  New  South  Wales  there  is 
one  who  loves  me — who  may  be  thinking  at  this  moment 
about  me — who  wishes  I  were  there,  or  he  were  here ; 
whose  heart's  warmth  stretches  across  the  distance  and 
makes  the  world  a  home,  because  he  is  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  It  would  seem  to  me  that  I  should  be  exultant 
to-day — if  there  was  such  a  one  for  me.  It  seems — if 
I  could  see  him  in  a  year,  even  if  I  could  not  see  him  at 
all,  and  he  were  somewhere — I  should  be  all  new  and 
radiant,  born  again.  .  .  .  But  you.  Betty  dear — oh, 
think  what  you  have — what  you  are  giving!" 

Betty's  eyes  were  shut.  There  was  a  gray  line  around 
the  faint  color  of  the  lips,  and  she  was  pale  as  a  candle- 
flame  in  the  morning  sun. 

'T  wish  you  could  stay  with  me,  dearest,"  she  whis 
pered.  "It  is  too  much  for  me — when  I  am  alone.  But 
when  you  are  here,  what  you  say  and  what  you  see — 
makes  me  believe.  .  .  .  And  you  must  tell  me  what 
to  write  in  answer  to  this — to  satisfy  him.  I  shall  hold 
it  in  my  hand,  and  rest " 

"I'll  come  back  this  afternoon.  We'll  have  supper, 
and  the  letter  will  be  mailed.  You'll  know  what  to  say 
then " 

She  hurried  away,  lest  her  heart  break.  The  tired, 
emotionless  voice  trailed  after  her.  And  all  day  she 


260  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

heard  Betty's  voice  among  the  unfinished  voices,  and  saw 
the  spiritless  clay  of  her  heart's  friend  sitting  in  deathly 
labor  below,  tormented  by  the  phantom  of  a  will — like  a 
once  glorious  empire  become  desolate,  a  foolish  scion 
upon  the  throne. 


HELEN  QUISTON  was  the  brain  of  the  studio,  the 
eyes  and  fingers — even,  in  part,  the  spirit  of  the 
place  that  John  Morning  loved.     It  was  a  letter  of  hers 
that  John  Morning  answered  with  this  paragraph : 

"I  shut  my  eyes  after  the  first  reading — and  it  seemed 
to  me  I  went  sailing.  There  were  many  voyagers  and 
many  islands — but  I  found  my  Island.  It  called  to  me 
and  I  knew  it  was  for  me.  The  voyagers  sailed  on  past 
the  curving  inlets  and  the  arrowed  points — but  I  sailed 
home.  I  found  the  fountains,  the  crags,  the  echoes,  the 
virgin  springs,  the  mysterious  meeting  places  of  the  land 
and  sea,  the  enchanted  forest  where  the  fairies  are — and 
the  sun  was  rising.  It  was  thus  I  answered  the  calling 
mystery  of  your  spirit.  .  .  ." 

She  was  glad  that  his  mind  turned  to  the  actual  mem 
ory  picture  of  Betty  Berry,  as  he  finished : 

"I  do  love  the  woman  that  moves  about  the  world, 
the  woman  others  see — the  lips  that  tremble,  the  eyes 
that  fill  with  tears  so  swiftly  over  some  loveliness,  and 
so  rarely  over  her  own  sorrow ;  the  instant-enfolding 
mind,  the  listening  and  the  vitality — but  it  seems  that  I 
love  in  a  greater  way  the  heart  that  called  to  its  lover 
without  words — who  fared  forth  to  meet  her  lover  and 
gave  her  soul." 

More  and  more  Helen  Quiston  perceived  that  John 
Morning  was  becoming  sufficient  unto  himself — the 
larger  lover,  loving  the  world  through  his  lady,  and  need 
ing  less,  even  in  thought,  her  hands  and  kisses  and  emo 
tions.  She  saw  steadily  that  which  Duke  Fallows  had 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         261 

made  Betty  Berry  see  for  a  night.  She  did  not  see  it 
as  clearly  as  Betty  Berry  saw  it  that  night,  but  she  be 
held  an  enduring  radiance  from  it,  because  her  body  was 
not  in  the  wreck  of  sacrifice.  She  had  a  woman's  sense 
of  the  large  relation  of  things,  and  a  woman's  faith. 
The  misery  of  life  as  she  had  met  it,  the  disorder,  monot 
ony,  and  gray  sorrow  of  it  all,  was  her  profound  assur 
ance  of  another  and  brilliant  side  to  the  shield.  She 
wanted  nothing  for  herself  in  these  particular  instances. 
For  Betty  Berry  she  saw  a  swift  transfer  to  a  certain 
indefinite  perfection,  no  less  attractive  because  it  was 
unlimned  in  her  mind.  Her  own  happiness,  her  great 
privilege,  was  to  be  third  in  this  miracle  of  a  man  and 
woman  passing  beyond  in  a  truly  royal  way.  There  was 
a  mystic  quality  that  suited  her  mind  in  the  coming  of 
the  Guardian  to  Betty  Berry's  room,  and  in  the  fact  that 
John  Morning  would  never  know  of  this.  It  was  like 
the  coming  of  some  Michael  or  Gabriel.  From  what  she 
knew  of  John  Morning's  work,  she  could  believe  in  the 
planetary  promise  that  the  Guardian  seemed  to  see ;  in 
deed,  she  could  have  believed  in  it  with  less  evidence, 
because  the  Guardian  said  so.  ...  Her  particular 
dream  was  for  the  man  to  appear  who  would  make 
women  see  what  it  was  in  their  hands  and  hearts  to  do 
for  the  coming  race.  She  dreamed  of  a  man  to  come 
with  words  to  women  that  would  be  reflected  upon  the 
brows  of  children  to  be,  that  would  help  to  fashion  the 
latent  dreams  into  great  children.  She  believed  it  was 
the  agony  of  being  childless  that  put  this  dream  into  her 
own  mind,  and  she  believed  that  the  world-ignition  could 
only  come  from  a  man  who  knew  the  same  agony. 
.  .  .  So  she  listened  raptly  to  the  singing  from  the 
forge;  and  more  and  more,  with  almost  unspeakable  ex 
citement,  she  realized  that  the  voice  of  John  Morning 
was  slowly  and  surely  taking  to  itself  the  authority  and 
harmony  which  his  Guardian  had  promised. 

He  wrote  often  now  of  the  rehearsals  of  Compassion, 


262  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

of  his  large  fears  and  small  satisfactions  in  them.  He 
was  always  glad  to  get  back  to  the  cabin  and  the  Book. 
.  .  .  That  book — some  of  her  own  inner  life  would 
be  in  it.  She  had  given  in  the  letters  everything  she 
dared.  Her  tears  were  all  shed ;  there  was  dry  burning 
in  her  eyes,  for  what  Betty  Berry  had  given  to  that  Book. 
.  .  .  Now  in  mid-September  it  was  done,  all  but  a 
month's  chiseling  and  polishing.  It  would  be  given  to 
the  publisher  two  weeks  before  the  first  appearance  of 
Compassion  at  the  Markheim  the  first  week  in  Novem 
ber.  .  .  .  She  dared  not  think  what  would  happen 
when  the  Book  was  done,  and  the  destiny  of  the  play 
established.  ...  A  letter  from  Morning  at  this  time 
contained  for  Helen  Quiston  one  winged,  triumphant 
sentence.  She  was  reading  aloud  to  Betty  Berry : 

"It  was  straight,  clean  going,  right  to  the  end  of  the 
book.  .  .  .  It  is  hard-held.  It  is  kind.  It  laughs. 
It  goes  after  the  deepest-down  man.  .  .  .  You  have 
to  reach  almost  self-effacement  to  associate  with  fine 
ideas  and  to  get  to  the  front  in  service.  .  .  .  How 
hard  it  was  to  make  me  see  that  the  real  world  is  not 
over  there  among  writers  and  publishers  and  drama- 
producers,  but  everywhere  among  the  hearts  of  the  poor! 

"And,  oh,  Betty  Berry,  it  isn't  the  book — it's  the  life 
that  counts.  You  have  made  me  live.  You  earned  your 
strength  alone — suffering  alone  through  the  years. 
That's  the  highest  honor  that  can  come  to  man  or  woman 
in  this  world — to  be  chosen  for  such  years  as  you  have 
known.  It  comes  only  to  the  strong — the  strength  to 
stand  alone.  The  world  bows  sooner  or  later  before 
such  character.  Men  feel  it,  though  their  eyes  be  shut. 

"There  is  a  certain  excellence  in  the  honor  of  stand 
ing  alone.  Alone,  man  or  woman  is  either  ahead  or  be 
hind  the  crowd.  In  the  latter  case,  he  is  imbecile  or  de 
fective,  and  God  is  with  him.  .  .  .  God  is  in  the 
forward  solitudes,  too.  What  a  splendor  about  standing 
in  the  full  light!  The  crowd  cannot  get  it.  The  crowd 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         263 

keeps  the  light  from  itself.  There  the  maiming  is,  the 
suffering,  the  cruelty ;  there  the  light  is  divided,  and  the 
warmth  is  the  low  heat  of  men,  not  the  grand  primal 
vitality  of  the  Sun.  There  in  the  crowd,  Apparition  and 
Appearance  take  the  place  of  the  Real.  .  .  .  Now 
and  then,  in  the  torturing  passage  of  the  crowd,  the  land 
mark  of  some  pioneer  is  reached,  and  the  cry  goes  up, 
'We  are  on  the  right  road,  for  that  man  passed  here!' 
The  name  of  the  pioneer  becomes  part  of  the  crowd's 
impedimenta.  Perhaps  he  smiles  from  the  Other  Side, 
not  because  the  crowd  has  found  his  trail — he  may  have 
wanted  that  once,  though  not  long — but  looking  back 
upon  his  greater  birth,  he  smiles — the  place  where  he 
emerged  and  stood  alone  on  the  grand  frontier.  .  .  . 
You  have  made  me  strong  enough  to  believe  that  you 
and  I  may  go  away  up  into  the  coolness  beyond  the 
senses — even  in  this  life " 

Helen  Quiston  stopped.  That  last  was  the  final  sanc 
tion.  The  Guardian  knew,  when  he  chose  John  Morning. 
It  was  the  one  thought  she  had  hardly  dared  formulate 
for  him,  and  which  she  had  awaited  ardently  during  the 
late  weeks. 

"He  means  that  a  woman  can  go,  too !"  she  cried, 
trembling,  forgetful  even  of  Betty  Berry;  "he  is  on  the 
path — higher,  higher — and  yet,  he  says  that  women,  too, 
can  go  that  way  alone " 

Betty  Berry  frowned.  "What  does  he  mean  by  going 
alone — about  a  man  and  a  woman  going  alone?"  She 
was  suffering  to  understand,  angry  that  the  other  under 
stood. 

"He  says  that  the  woman  may  also  go  alone  to  that 
Eminence  !  No  man — no  human  man — has  ever  said  that 
before.  Men  think  of  men  passing  upward.  People 
caught  in  their  desires  have  forever  lied  to  themselves, 
trying  to  believe  that  man  and  woman  can  go  together. 
.  .  .  He  says  here "  her  eye  darted  on  to  read : 

"  'Men  and  women  gain  their  strength  to  reach  that 


264  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

Eminence  by  being  alone — by  loving  alone !'  You  taught 
him  that.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see,  dearest,  it  is  the  be 
ginning  of  his  real  message?  You  gave  it  to  him — and 
what  a  message  it  is  for  you  and  for — even  for  me " 

"But  woman  is  the  serpent,"  Betty  Berry  muttered. 

Helen  arose  to  turn  on  a  wall  light.  Her  hand  fum 
bled.  Her  eyes  could  not  be  brought  down  from  that 
lofty  plateau.  A  strange  peace  had  come  into  the  lone 
liness  of  her  life.  She  wanted  to  tell  it  everywhere — to 
Nuns  of  the  World.  ...  It  had  been  a  man's  world 
so  long — that  this  thought  had  never  come.  Always  in 
the  world's  thought  and  art — the  flesh  of  woman  had 
kept  her  down  in  the  dusks  and  valleys.  Sons  climbed ; 
lovers  left  their  maids  to  climb  .  .  .  but  only  the 
Gods  knew  all  the  time  that  daughters  could  go. 

Betty  was  silent.  It  had  become  the  habit  of  her  life 
not  to  speak  when  the  mists  thickened.  .  .  .  The 
picture  of  Dante  and  Beatrice  was  in  the  light.  Helen 
pointed  to  it : 

'Who  would  think  of  saying  that  Beatrice,  who  was 
the  Way — did  not  share  the  vision  and  the  conscious 
ness?"  she  asked  softly. 

Betty  shut  her  eyes.  The  other  returned  with  eager 
love  and  sat  down  at  her  knees.  "And  now  I  will  read 
the  last.  Just  think  how  clearly  he  sees  : 

"  'The  world  is  so  dear  to  me  because  of  you.  I  am 
so  freshly  conscious  of  its  roundness,  of  the  profile  of  its 
coasts  as  seen  from  above ;  of  its  light  and  darkness,  the 
sharpness  of  sun  in  the  retreating  gray,  of  its  skies  and 
its  peaks,  the  last  to  darken  and  the  first  to  answer  the 
morn.  ...  I  put  the  candle  away  just  now,  and  in 
the  darkness  I  saw  the  Earth  from  above — not  from 
afar,  but  from  some  space  nearer  than  the  moon.  I  saw 
it  all  at  once.  The  moon  shining  upon  one  side,  the  sun 
shining  upon  the  other — a  golden  side,  a  silver  side. 
.  .  .  And  I  saw  you  afterward — not  as  you  are  in  the 
studio,  but  as  a  shadowed,  quiet  figure  among  moonlit 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         265 

ruins.  You  were  calm,  and  moved  silently  here  and  there. 
Ruins  were  about  you,  yet  you  seemed  to  know  the  things 
to  do.  What  does  it  mean?" 

"What  does  it  mean,  Helen?"  Betty  repeated. 

The  other's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  The  question 
might  have  come  from  a  little  old  lady  of  eighty,  whose 
house  of  life  was  locked,  all  but  the  sitting-room. 

"It's  just  a  dream,  dear,"  she  whispered. 

"There  are  no  ruins  about  me — when  you  are  here," 
Betty  said. 

"Ruins,  dearest?  .  .  .  No,  gardens  and  living 
temples " 

Betty  arose,  and  moved  slowly  up  and  down  the  stu 
dio,  then  stood  by  her  chair.  The  impulse  even  to  lift 
her  hand  was  unusual.  She  moved  now  with  difficulty, 
but  was  not  conscious  of  it.  The  room  was  dark,  except 
for  the  one  wall-light.  Helen  went  to  her  side,  helped 
her  at  last  to  the  chair.  Betty's  face  was  deathly,  but 
there  was  a  mournful  reasonableness  in  her  eyes,  a  faint 
grasp  of  actuality,  that  the  other  had  not  seen  for  weeks. 
The  old  enemies,  memory  and  hope,  were  in  feeble 
conflict. 

"Do  you  think  he  means  that  I  am  not  well?" 

"He   was   only   expressing    a   dream-picture.     .     . 
I'm  sure  he  hasn't  interpreted  it — 

"But  he  will.     That  comes  afterward " 


Betty  was  either  better  or  worse.  .  .  .  The  Doc 
tor  came.  As  he  was  leaving,  Helen  walked  to  the  stairs 
with  him. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  change,"  he  said. 

"You  think  it  is  good?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  It's  been  nearly  six  months.  Yes,  I 
think  it  is  good.  She  would  have  been  dead  without  you, 
Aliss  Quiston.  I  don't  know  what  you  do — but  you  keep 
her  from  the  engrossing  mania." 

"She  has  some  strength,  Doctor?" 


266  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

"It  is  all  a  matter  of  will  at  this  stage.  All  along  we 
have  battled  to  keep  her  somehow  nourished." 

Helen  went  back  to  the  studio.  Betty  was  on  her 
feet  again.  The  nurse  was  at  hand,  but  she  had  never 
been  able  to  involve  herself  in  the  patient's  understand 
ing.  She  left  the  room  now,  anticipating  the  inevitable 
request. 

"Do  you  think,  Helen — that  as  he  finishes  his  work — 
more  and  more — the  ruins  will  come  back  to  mind?" 


THE  Summer  was  done ;  the  book  had  been  ten  days 
out  of  Morning's  hand ;  the  final  rehearsals  were 
engrossing  and  painful,  and  the  letters  from  the  hill- 
cabin,  though  buoyant,  were  not  so  frequent.  .  .  . 
Service  for  men — service  for  men !  The  words  seemed 
integrated  into  the  life  of  the  man.  There  was  some 
thing  herculean  in  his  striving.  The  long  Summer  had 
ripened  the  harvest.  Conceptions  which  had  been  vague 
and  dreamy  in  the  first  letters  were  ready  at  his  hand 
now,  daily  expressions  of  his  work.  Helen  Quiston,  so 
long  dream-fed,  trembled  at  the  thought  that  she  had 
something  to  do  with  a  giant's  making. 

It  never  occurred  to  her  that  the  things  so  real  in 
her  mind  were  at  least  an  age  distant  from  the  interests 
of  the  world.  She  did  not  stop  to  think  that  the  drama  so 
vital  and  amazing  to  her  would  be  out  of  the  comprehen 
sion  even  of  the  decent  doctor  who  came  to  the  studio 
day  after  day.  Not  once  did  it  enter  her  mind  that  the 
world  would  regard  her  as  heartless  and  fanatic  for  her 
strength  in  so  ruthlessly  holding  her  closest  friend  to 
the  sacrifice.  Her  problem  now  was  what  to  do  with 
John  Morning  after  the  first  night  of  the  play,  and  the 
report  upon  his  book  was  in.  She  was  afraid  he  would 
come.  He  would  see  Betty  Berry — see  what  her  giving 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         267 

had  done.  He  would  learn  that  it  was  she,  Helen  Quis- 
ton,  who  had  given  him  the  peace  in  which  to  find  the 
larger  consciousness ;  her  letters,  in  Betty  Berry's  hand, 
that  had  filled  the  distances  with  peace  for  him. 

She  had  no  thought  for  John  Morning  except  as  an 
instrument.  It  was  something  the  way  Duke  Fallows 
had  thought  of  him  at  the  last.  Either  one  would  have 
sacrificed  themselves,  but  they  were  not  called.  Only 
Betty  Berry  loved  him  for  himself,  and  to  her  was  the 
altar.  They  loved  him  for  the  future,  and  guarded  him 
as  the  worker-bees  guard  the  queen  because  she  is  poten 
tially  the  coming  race. 

And  this  was  the  miracle :  John  Morning  at  his  work 
had  passed  the  need  of  the  kiss  of  woman-.  He  had  been 
tided  over  the  grand  crossing  by  the  love  of  Betty  Berry. 
Receiving  it  now,  he  did  not  hold  it  for  himself,  but 
gave  it  forth  in  service  to  men.  .  .  .  There  was 
something  cosmic  about  this  to  Helen  Quiston. 

Breathless  expectancy  in  the  studio  on  the  early  No 
vember  evening  of  Compassion's  first  performance  at 
the  Markhcim.  Though  nothing  of  the  sort  had  been 
arranged,  Helen  Quiston  expected  a  telegram  after  the 
Play.  It  was  not  yet  cold,  but  an  east  wind  had  been 
rising  since  dark,  and  there  was  tension  in  the  sounds 
and  shaking  everywhere.  Betty  had,  for  her,  a  very 
keen  sense  of  the  importance  of  the  night  to  the  man  in 
New  York. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  lived,  Betty,"  her  friend  whispered. 
"Oh,  what  must  it  be  to  you?" 

"I  feel  that  I  have  died,"  the  other  murmured. 

Though  she  rested  better  and  accepted  food  with  less 
reluctance,  (the  doctor  declaring  himself  satisfied  with 
the  progress  of  the  past  six  weeks),  it  had  been  the  hard 
est  period  for  Helen  Quiston.  Something  was  in  Betty's 
mind  that  was  not  confided.  Often  in  the  evening  she 
showed  a  preference  for  being  alone.  Helen  feared  for 


268  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

a  time  that  the  other  might  write  a  letter  without  her 
supervision,  but  as  there  was  no  change  in  the  tenor  of 
Morning's  replies,  the  outpouring  of  his  thankfulness  in 
no  way  diminished,  the  only  conclusion  was  that  Betty 
at  least  had  not  mailed  such  a  one.  She  had  taken  sud 
den  dislikes  to  several  different  nurses  in  turn.  When  she 
wanted  anything  there  was  a  terrible  concentration  about 
it.  Helen  and  the  doctor  and  all  concerned  were  drawn 
into  the  vortex. 

"It's  the  way  she  used  to  practice,"  her  friend  said. 

"Miss  Quiston- "  began  the  doctor. 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  was  just  thinking — are  you 
so  real  to  all  your  friends  ?" 

"I  have  no  friend  like  Betty." 

"That  eases  my  mind." 

"Why?" 

"A  few  friends  like  that  and  there  wouldn't  be  any 
singing  teacher." 

Helen  Quiston  realized  fully  for  the  first  time  that 
the  doctor  was  exactly  a  human  being,  having  the  va 
rious  features  of  the  species. 

They  were  startled  by  a  crash  in  the  inner  room.  The 
nurse  entered  quickly  to  announce  that  a  flower-pot  con 
taining  a  fuchsia  had  fallen  from  the  window-sill. 

"The  plant  is  in  ruins,"  she  said. 

Betty  rose  immediately.  Ruins — the  word  was  a  fiery 
stimulant  to  her.  In  a  few  moments  she  ceased  her  pac 
ing,  saying  that  she  was  utterly  weary.  Helen,  though 
leaving  for  the  room  she  occupied,  a  flight  above,  could 
but  remark  upon  the  gleaming  intensity  of  Betty's  eyes, 
and  the  restless  leaping  of  her  hands.  .  .  . 

The  nurse  came  to  her.  Betty  went  with  her  into 
the  inner  room.  In  the  next  fifteen  minutes,  the  patient 
was  more  or  less  alone,  while  the  studio  couch,  upon 
which  the  nurse  was  accustomed  to  rest,  was  being  pre- 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         269 

pared.  Unwatched,  her  movements  quickened,  a  queer, 
furtive  smile  played  upon  her  lips,  and  certain  actions 
altogether  uncommon  occupied  her  concentrated  atten 
tion.  The  key  was  quietly  removed  from  the  door  be 
tween  the  studio  and  the  living-room ;  a  large  bundle 
was  carried  from  a  closet-shelf  to  the  rear  window  and 
tossed  out.  From  behind  the  books  in  a  small  case  near 
the  reading-lamp  a  purse  was  produced  ;  and  finally,  when 
the  nurse  was  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  studio,  Betty 
drew  a  large,  sharp  knife  from  the  same  hiding-place, 
and  with  astonishing  quiet  and  force  severed  the  tele 
phone  wires  just  beneath  the  bell-box,  fastened  to  the 
wall  close  to  the  floor.  The  knife  was  returned  to  its 
hiding-place.  The  nurse  joined  her,  and  Betty,  at  the 
studio  door,  suddenly  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  cry  of 
exhaustion.  The  other  ran  to  her. 

"It  is  nothing!     Bring  some  water — 

The  nurse  had  not  reached  the  medicine-case  in  the 
bath,  when  the  patient  sprang  up  and  locked  the  inter 
vening  door  of  the  apartment,  leaving  the  woman  inside 
with  a  "dead"  telephone. 

For  the  first  time  in  half  a  year,  Betty  left  the  studio, 
carefully  closing  the  main  door.  Out  the  back  way,  she 
found  her  parcel,  and  in  the  windy  darkness  put  on  the 
rain-coat,  traveling  hat,  veil,  gloves  and  shoes  it  had 
contained,  departing  breathlessly  through  the  alley  gate. 

For  a  long  time  the  hammering  upon  floors  and  walls 
could  not  be  located  in  the  studio-building.  The  outer 
door  of  Betty's  apartment  was  tried,  but  found  locked ; 
and  since  there  was  no  response  to  the  bell,  nothing  came 
of  the  offerings  of  the  earlier  Samaritans.  Much  time 
was  occupied  by  the  nurse  in  trying  to  call  the  telephone- 
exchange.  A  stranger  in  the  street  was  finally  per 
suaded,  from  the  upper  window,  to  find  the  janitor  of 
the  building  and  send  him  to  the  Quiston  studio.  Mas 
ter  keys  set  the  nurse  free. 

Helen   Quiston  first  notified   the  Doctor,   who   came 


270  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

hastily.    The  story  of  the  nurse  was  explicit  as  a  hospital 
report. 

"Is  your  car  here,  Doctor?"  Miss  Quiston  asked  pres 
ently. 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  take  me  down-town?  I'll  be  ready  in  a 
moment." 

"Gladly." 

"The  Doctor  was  informed  in  a  tense  but  controlled 
voice  that  the  patient  was  doubtless  at  this  moment  upon 
a  certain  east-bound  train.  "Betty  left  here  a  few  min 
utes  after  nine,"  Helen  added.  "The  train  I'm  thinking 
of  left  at  ten-five.  It  is  now  eleven.  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
wonder  what  she  had  on?  She  was  dressed  when  I  left 
her — shirt-waist,  black  skirt,  house-slippers " 

Five  minutes'  search  and  thinking  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Quiston  uncovered  the  fact  that  Betty's  rain-coat  and  a 
certain  small  traveling  hat  were  missing.  .  .  .  Noth 
ing  was  positively  established  at  the  station. 

"I  must  send  a  telegram,  Doctor,"  Helen  said. 

It  was  to  Morning  at  his  rural-delivery  address.  Her 
heart  sank  with  fear  lest  the  message  fail  to  reach  him, 
until  it  was  finally  handled  by  the  post-office. 

"There's  nothing  further  to  do,"  she  said  hopelessly. 

Night  brought  no  news,  nor  the  early  morning.  At 
nine-thirty  o'clock,  Helen  Quiston  was  leaving  the  studio 
for  the  morning's  work,  when  she  heard  a  light,  swift 
step  on  the  stairs — someone  coming  up  at  least  three  steps 
at  a  time.  The  hall-door  was  half-swung.  Helen  stood 
waiting.  .  .  .  Now  a  stranger  was  at  the  doorway, 
hesitating,  yet  expectant.  His  brow  was  tanned,  as  if 
he  had  walked  bare-headed  in  the  sun.  His  gray  eyes 
were  remarkably  clear  and  very  kind.  For  a  second  or 
two  they  stood  face  to  face,  forgetting  to  speak. 

"Where  is  Betty  Berry?"  It  was  a  demand,  yet 
gently  spoken. 

"Are  you — are  you  John  Morning?" 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         271 

"Yes.     .     .     .     Where  is  she?" 

''I  think  she  has  gone  to  you — I  do  not  know,  but  I 
think  she  has  gone  to  the  hill-cabin " 

"Are  you  her  friend?" 

"Yes — I  am  Miss  Ouiston." 

"When  did  she  go?" 

"Last  night.     I  telegraphed  you " 

He  came  close  to  her.  His  hand  upon  her  shoulder 
drew  her  to  a  chair,  and  he  brought  another  near.  "I 
will  not  stop  to  ask  questions,"  he  said  heavily.  "You 
tell  me  all— 

"What  of  the  play?" 

"I  don't  know — I  left  before  it  was  done  to  come 
here.  .  .  .  She  is  ill — go  on " 

The  story  faltered  at  first,  but  the  gray  eyes  steadied 
her.  Toward  the  end  she  talked  swiftly,  coherently.  She 
winged  over  the  one  certain  cause  of  Betty's  illness. 
.  .  .  \Vhen  she  stopped,  it  seemed  to  her  that  some 
mighty  machinery  was  whirring  below,  its  vibrations  in 
the  floor  and  walls. 

He  arose,  stood  beside  her — all  the  light  and  reason 
gone  from  his  face.  For  several  seconds  he  stood  there, 
his  left  hand  swiftly  tapping  her  shoulder.  The  powers 
of  the  man  were  afar — miles  away  upon  his  hill.  This 
was  just  a  tapping  blind  man  in  the  room.  .  .  . 

"I  must  go.  I  have  no  words  now.  .  .  .  She  is 
there.  It  must  be  nearly  ten  now.  I  must  hurry  to 
her." 

The  engines  in  the  house  flagged  and  were  silent. 

The  woman  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  smiling. 


BETTY  held  her  purse  tightly  in  her  hand,  and  cer 
tain  thoughts  were  held  as  tightly  in  her  brain,  as 
she  pressed  against  the  wind.     ...     It  was  something 
like  going  to  a  distant  concert  engagement  in  the  night. 


272  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

.  .  .  Her  limbs  were  uncertain,  and  there  was  a  con 
stant  winging  in  her  breast,  as  though  it  were  the  cage 
of  a  frantic  bird.  She  did  not  mind.  She  could  forget 
it — if  only  her  eyes  remained  true.  For  the  first  time  in 
months  she  was  on  her  own  strength,  her  own  will. 
There  was  a  sharp  distress  in  the  responsibility,  but  also 
an  awakening  of  force. 

The  wind  whipped  her  breath  away,  yet  she  liked  the 
wild  freedom  of  it — if  only  she  could  continue  to  see  and 
remember  what  to  say.  The  studio  was  a  hideous  black 
ness  that  drove  her  from  behind.  This  was  a  new  and 
consuming  hatred.  The  two  squares  to  the  large  up 
town  hotel  where  a  cab  was  readily  obtainable  were  long 
as  a  winter  night ;  and  the  tension  to  remember  seemed 
destroying  her  by  the  time  she  found  a  driver.  She  told 
him  the  station  and  the  train. 

"Plenty  of  time,  Ma'am,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  It  was  true,  then,  that 
there  was  such  a  station,  such  a  train,  that  there  was 
time,  and  nothing  had  betrayed  her.  "I  must  not  speak ; 
I  must  not  speak,"  kept  warning  in  her  mind ;  "but  he  is 
so  good  to  me !" 

Now  she  felt  the  cold,  as  she  rested  a  moment  before 
the  new  ordeal  at  the  station — destination,  tickets,  the 
Pullman,  not  to  fall,  not  to  speak  any  but  the  exact 
words.  .  .  .  The  driver  helped  her  out.  Everything 
was  familiar,  but  miraculously  large.  .  .  .  She  gave 
the  man  extra  money,  and  the  faintest,  humblest  "Thank 
you !"  escaped  her.  He  whistled  a  porter  for  her. 

"The  ticket  window,"  she  said.  And  now  she  need 
only  follow.  It  was  warmer.  It  would  be  warm  in  the 
Pullman.  .  .  .  She  took  the  young  colored  man's 
arm.  He  turned  with  good  nature. 

"I  have  been  ill,"  she  said.  It  was  frightened  from 
her  lips. 

"There  is  plenty  of  time,  Miss.  I'll  see  you  through 
to  the  berth — the  ten-five — yes'm." 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         273 

The  quick  tears  started  again,  and  an  aching  lump  in 
her  throat.  She  wanted  to  cry  out  her  thankfulness. 
She  wanted  to  be  told  again  and  again — that  all  this  was 
not  a  dream,  from  which  she  would  awaken  in  that  place 
of  death.  The  value  of  her  veil  awed  her ;  and  it  was 
she  who  had  thought  of  it.  Could  it  really  be  true  that 
she  had  forgotten  nothing?  Would  she  actually  arrive 
at  her  journey's  end? 

The  porter  procured  berth  and  tickets,  and  now  he 
assured  her  that  her  train  was  ready.  She  followed  him 
through  interminable  distances,  down  countless  stairs ; 
she  watched  and  listened  critically,  as  he  delivered  both 
tickets  to  the  Pullman  conductor.  All  she  had  to  do  was 
to  follow,  to  say  nothing  and  to  pay.  With  what  thank 
fulness  did  she  pay ;  and  with  what  warming  courtesy 
were  her  gifts  received.  Surely  the  world  was  changed. 
It  had  become  so  dear  and  good.  .  .  .  She  had  a 
far-off  vision  of  a  peremptory  Betty  Berry  of  another 
world,  striding  to  and  fro  among  men  and  trains  and 
cities,  giving  her  commands,  expecting  obedience,  con 
ferring  gratuities  according  to  rigid  principle. 

The  car-porter  was  more  wronderful  than  any — an 
old  Southern  darkey,  with  little  patches  of  gray  beard, 
absurdly  distributed.  A  homing  gentleness  was  in  his 
voice,  and  his  smile  was  from  a  better  world.  .  . 
There  had  been  another  porter  like  him  some 
where. 

"She  goes  clear  through,"  the  station  porter  said, 
"and  she's  been  sick." 

"Ah'll  see  the  young  Miss  clar'  through,"  the  old 
man  drawled.  "Just  depen'  on  me,  Miss.  Sit  right  down 
here — berth'll  be  ready  right  smaht." 

She  did  not  sleep,  but  she  was  warm  and  not  uncom 
fortable.  She  dared  think  a  little  of  the  end  of  the  jour 
ney,  but  there  was  so  much  to  do  in  the  morning,  so  much 
to  keep  in  mind.  She  held  fast  to  her  purse.  In  her  de 
pendence,  the  magic  of  it  was  like  a  strange  discovery. 


274  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

In  the  early  morning",  the  porter  brought  her  coffee  with 
some  hot  milk  and  toast.  The  wind  had  long  since  been 
left  behind,  but  a  cold  rain  was  falling.  She  would  be 
cold.  The  terminal  was  reached.  The  old  man  bore  her 
forth.  There  was  something  merciful  and  restoring  in 
his  gentle  gratitude.  A  station  porter  led  her  to  the 
Hackensack  car. 

She  thought  of  breakfast  on  the  way,  but  forgot  it 
again  upon  reaching  Hackensack,  where  she  was  directed 
to  the  post-office. 

She  wrote  the  address  of  John  Morning  and  asked 
shiveringly  at  the  stamp  window  if  there  was  any  way 
in  which  she  could  be  delivered  there. 

The  clerk  could  not  see  if  she  were  laughing  under 
the  veil. 

"The  rural  carrier  knows  the  way,"  she  added.  "I'd 
be  willing  to  pay  well " 

The  clerk  craned  his  head  back  through  the  office, 
and  called: 

"Jethro !" 

A  large,  dusty  man  came  forward  with  the  air  of 
having  just  breakfasted.  He  took  the  slip  containing 
the  address  from  her  hand. 

"The  lady  wants  to  go  with  you,  Jethro 

The  rural  carrier  tilted  his  spectacles  benignly  to  re 
gard  her. 

"Bless  me — even  been  there?" 

"No — but  letters  go  safely " 

"I  rather  think  they  do — since  I  take  'em.  Is  this 
your  writing?" 

The  place  was  darkening,  suffocating  to  her.  "Yes 
if  you  would  only  take  me.  Five,  ten 
dollars — oh,  I  should  be  so  glad  to  pay  anything  I 
have " 

The  carrier  penetrated  the  veil. 

"Just  sit  down  by  the  heater,  Lady,"  he  said  in  a  low 
ered  tone.  "We'll  get  there,  and  it  won't  cost  you  five 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         275 

or  ten  dollars,  neither.  I  know  where  you  want  to  go, 
and  I  know  who  you  are,  if  I'm  not  mistaken.  Lizzie 
and  I  will  get  you  there " 

She  turned  quickly,  for  the  tears  were  coming. 
.  Could  it  really  be  that  she  had  remembered 
everything?  Was  she  really  going  to  him,  and  this  the 
last  stage  of  the  journey?  The  heart  of  the  large,  dusty 
man  had  radiated  so  suddenly  upon  her.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  him,  but  she  must  not  faint  nor  speak  until  she 
was  away  from  the  others.  Very  still  she  sat  by  the 
heater,  praying  for  strength,  praying  that  it  was  not  all 
a  dream.  .  .  . 

"Miss  Betty  Berry!" 

There  was  an  instant  in  which  the  call  had  but  a  vague 
meaning;  then  shot  home  to  her  the  hideous  fear  of  be 
ing  taken  back.  She  was  close  to  screaming,  yet  it  was 
only  the  rural-carrier  coming. 

"Yes?"  she  said,  clearing  her  throat. 

"I  thought  I  couldn't  be  wrong,"  he  said.  "I've 
brought  a  good  many  letters  addressed  to  you  back  to 
town  from  the  place  you're  going,  and  carried  a  good 
many  out  yonder  in  this  writing  of  yours.  .  .  .  Liz 
zie  and  me  are  ready,  Miss." 

As  they  stepped  out  the  rear  door,  he  touched  her  arm 
reflectively,  and  re-entered  to  bring  a  hairy  black  robe. 
The  vehicle,  of  a  vanished  type,  was  gray  even  in  the 
rain,  and  cocked  to  one  side  from  the  sagging  of  years, 
where  the  carrier  sat.  Betty's  weight  did  not  visibly 
impress  the  high  side.  He  tucked  the  hairy  robe  about 
her,  the  mail-bags  at  her  feet,  picked  up  the  lines,  and 
lo !  they  moved. 

"Lizzie  ain't  very  showy  on  knee  action,  Miss  Berry," 
he  said,  "but  along  about  half-past  eleven,  when  wye  get 
there,  you'll  remark  she's  stiddy." 

It  was  only  ten  now.  .  .  .  Mud  and  miles  and 
mail-boxes ;  dragging  moments,  and  miles  and  cold  rain. 

.     .     She  had  to  talk  a  little.     The  journey  of  the 


276  DOWN   AMONG    MEN 

night  was  nearest,  and  she  told  how  good  the  train-men 
had  been  to  her. 

"You  haven't  traveled  much,  Miss,  I  take  it?"  he  said 
softly. 

"Oh,  no."  Then  distantly  again  she  remembered  a 
Betty  Berry  of  concert  seasons — on  the  wing  from  city 
to  city.  It  was  all  too  remote  for  speech.  At  one  house 
a  woman  came  forth  with  tea  and  sandwiches.  Betty 
was  grateful  for  the  warm  drink  and  wanted  to  pay,  but 
the  carrier  pushed  back  her  hand  and  tucked  her  in 
again. 

"Guess  this  is  going  to  be  a  surprise  for  the  bare 
headed  man?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"He's  your  young  man,  then?" 

"Yes." 

He  seemed  relieved.  "He  won't  be  staying  out  here 
much  longer — not  likely — though  we  do  have  a  spell  of 
good  weather  in  November  mostly." 

Often  she  lost  every  sense  of  distance  and  identity. 
The  lapses  grew  longer  toward  the  end,  and  when  she 
did  not  answer,  Tethro  thought  she  had  fallen  asleep. 

.  .  A  long  stretch  at  last,  barren  of  mail-boxes. 
.  .  .  When  he  finally  drew  up,  she  followed  his  eyes 
to  her  lover's  name  upon  the  tin  by  the  roadside.  Then 
he  pointed  beyond  the  low  near  trees  and  hollows.  It 
was  all  desolate ;  the  Fall  tints  subdued  in  the  pervading 
gray.  She  saw  a  clump  of  greater  trees  in  the  upper 
middle  distance. 

"  'Bout  a  thousand  feet  straight  in,  Miss — and  up — 
under  them  big  trees.  You'll  see  his  shanty  before 
you're  half-way.  Just  keep  your  eye  on  them  elums. 
He'd  be  down  here  if  it  was  any  kind  of  weather.  Guess 
you're  glad.  D'ruther  go  alone  and  find  him  there, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  And  now  I  want  to  give  you  this, 
please." 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         277 

He  shook  his  head. 

She  could  not  leave  him  so.  "For  Lizzie — she's  so 
steady.  I'm  rich  .  .  .  and  I'll  be  much  happier — - 
going  to  the  bare-headed  man.  Please — for  me " 

''Don't  you  take  that  robe  off!"  he  said  suddenly.  "I 
don't  want  it — jumpin'  in  and  out.  I  never  take  it  out 
of  the  office  till  snow  ilies.  He'll  bring  it  down  to  the 
box,  when  I'm  passin'  to-morrow.  Why,  you'd  get  all 
soaked,  Miss — a-goin'  up  to  him.  .  .  .  Well,  I'll 
take  the  money  for  'Lizzie — if  you're  rich — but  it's  ridic 
ulous  much,  and  I'd  have  fetched  you  for  nothin'." 

She  pressed  his  hand  in  both  of  hers  and  turned  away 
through  the  break  in  the  fence.  ...  It  seemed 
darker ;  and  when  the  grinding  of  the  tires  on  the  wet 
gravel  died  away,  the  dripping  silence  came  home  to  her, 
alien  and  fearful.  .  .  .  She  had  seen  the  name ;  soon 
she  would  see  his  house — but  this  was  no  man's  land,  an 
after-death  land ;  this  was  'the  hollows  and  the  vague 
ness  of  light/  of  which  he  had  written.  .  .  . 

She  saw  the  house  and  faltered  on.  She  had  not  the 
strength  to  call.  .  .  .  On  the  slope  to  the  great  trees 
the  burden  of  the  heavy  robe  would  have  borne  her  to 
the  ground,  had  she  not  let  it  fall  from  her.  .  .  .  She 
could  not  believe  the  padlock  on  the  door,  felt  it  with  her 
hands,  the  weight  and  the  brass  of  it.  It  was  hard  for 
her  to  understand  the  cruel  cold  of  it — as  for  a  child 
that  has  never  been  hurt  intentionally.  She  sank  to  her 
knees  and  prayed  that  it  was  not  there.  .  .  .  But  it 
was.  The  reality  entered  her  brain,  the  thick  icy  metal 
of  it. 

"Betty  Berry — Betty  Berry,  I  am  coming!" 
She  lifted  her  head  in  the  rain.  His  call  was  like  a 
thought  of  her  own,  but  sharper,  truer.  This  was  his 
door.  He  was  coming.  It  was  still  light.  She  wanted 
to  sleep  again,  but  the  death-like  cold  warned  her.  She 
would  die  before  he  came. 


278  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

She  raised  herself  against  the  door.  The  black  heap 
of  the  fur-robe  on  the  slope  held  her  eyes.  .  .  .  On 
the  way  to  it  she  fainted  again ;  again  the  cold  rain  roused 
her.  .  .  .  Always  on  the  borders  of  the  rousing,  she 
heard  it : 

"Betty  Berry — Betty  Berry,  I  am  coming!" 

She  knelt  in  the  wet  leaves  beside  the  robe  .  .  . 
her  thoughts  turned  back  to  the  night — the  goodness  of 
the  men,  their  tender  voices.  .  .  .  There  was  a  call 
ing  up  in  the  dusk  among  the  trees.  Yes,  she  must  lie 
at  his  door.  Men  were  good ;  the  lock  alone  had  hurt 
her.  His  Guardian  had  put  it  there.  .  .  .  Upward 
she  crawled,  dragging  the  robe. 

"Yes,  you  are  coming!"  she  answered.  Always  when 
the  cold  rain  roused  her,  she  would  answer,  and  crawl  a 
little  farther  with  the  robe.  At  the  door  at  last,  she  lay 
down  beneath  it.  ... 

Still  again  his  calling  roused  her.  It  was  darker — 
but  not  yet  night.  .  .  . 

"Betty  Berry — Betty  Berry,  I  am  coming!" 

It  was  nearer. 

"I  knew  you  would  let  me  in,"  she  tried  to  say,  and 
then — voices.  ...  It  seemed  as  if  the  porter  of  the 
Old  South  had  come.  .  .  .  His  voice  lulled  her,  and 
his  smile  was  the  glow  of  the  home-hearth. 

8 

SHE  was  lying  upon  the  single  narrow  bed.  .  .  . 
Something  long  ago  had  been  premonitive  of  this. 
Morning's  mind,  too,  caught  up  the  remembrance  of 
Moto-san  and  the  Japanese  Inn.  .  .  .  He  watched. 
Sometimes  he  said  with  all  his  will  that  she  must  not  die. 
She  could  not  die,  when  his  will  was  dominant,  but  he 
was  exhausted ;  his  will-power  flagged  frequently. 

All  day  yesterday  in  the  train  he  had  held  her  in  his 
mind — sent  his  calls  to  her  across  the  miles.  From  dif- 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         279 

ferent  stations  he  had  telegraphed  to  Jake  at  Hacken- 
sack,  to  Jethro  at  the  post-office,  and  to  his  neighbor, 
the  dairyman,  who  had  a  telephone.  Jethro  had  been 
the  first  to  reach  the  cabin,  but  it  was  nearly  dusk  then. 
The  others  were  quick  to  appear.  Jethro  found  her  at 
the  door,  partly  covered  in  the  furry  robe.  That  robe 
crowned  him  in  Morning's  mind.  They  had  broken  in 
the  door,  and  lit  the  fire.  Morning  reached  the  cabin  at 
nine.  Jethro  spoke  of  a  doctor. 

"I'm  the  doctor,"  Morning  said.  The  three  had  left 
him. 

It  was  now  after  midnight.  She  had  not  aroused. 
Old  scenes  quivered  across  the  surface  of  her  couscious- 
ness,  starting  a  faintly  mumbled  sentence  now  and  then : 
The  Armory,  the  first  kiss,  the  road  to  Baltimore,  letters, 
hurried  journeys,  the  Guardian ;  and  much  about  the 
latest  journey— from  cab  to  station,  from  porter  to  Pull 
man,  from  car  to  clerk  to  carrier.  He  saw  how  the  night 
and  the  day  had  used  her  final  strength.  Always  the 
Guardian  intervened  to  break  her  will,  and  Morning  did 
not  understand.  There  were  other  enemies  ;  the  studio, 
the  nurse,  the  padlock,  and  the  rain.  After  brief  hushes, 
she  would  speak  of  his  coming,  or  answer  his  calling. 

It  was  the  one  theme  of  his  life  even  now — the  great 
thing  Betty  Berry  had  done.  It  awed  and  chilled  him 
to  realize  how  coarse-fibered  he  had  been,  so  utterly  im 
pervious,  not  to  sense  the  nature  of  the  force  that  had 
upheld  him,  nor  the  quality  of  the  bestowals.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  rending  about  it,  and  yet  it  was  all  so  quiet 
now.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  man's  life  is  husk  after 
husk  of  illusion,  that  the  illusions  are  endless.  He  had 
torn  them  away,  one  after  another,  thinking  each  time 
that  he  had  come  to  the  grain.  .  .  .  And  what  was 
the  sum  of  his  finding  so  far  ?  That  good  is  eternal ;  that 
man  loves  God  best  by  serving  men ;  that  greatness  is 
in  the  working,  not  in  the  result ;  that  a  man  who  has 
found  his  work  has  found  the  soul's  sunlight,  and  that 


28o  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

service  for  men  is  its  rain.     Surely,  these  are  not  husks. 

.  .  .  It  had  been  a  hard,  weary  way.  He  was  like 
a  tired  child  now,  and  here  was  the  little  mother — 
wearied  with  him  unto  death.  .  .  .  He  had  been  so 
perverse  and  headstrong.  She  had  given  him  her  love 
and  guidance  until  her  last  strength  was  spent.  He  must 
be  the  man  now.  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  his  heart 
would  break,  when  he  realized  fully  his  own  evil  and  her 
unfathomable  sweetness?  .  .  .  Must  a  woman  al 
ways  fall  spent  and  near  to  death — before  a  man  can  be 
finished  ?  Or  is  it  because  her  work  is  done  that  she  falls  ? 

He  knelt  beside  her.  Sometimes,  in  the  lamplight,  she 
looked  as  he  had  seen  her  at  the  Armory ;  again,  as  if 
she  were  playing;  now,  it  was  as  she  had  been  to  him 
in  the  dark  of  the  Pullman  seat.  .  .  .  Who  was  the 
Guardian  ? 

.  .  .  And  this  was  what  had  come  to  her  from 
teaching  him  the  miracle  of  listening  alone.  ...  It 
was  true.  He  belonged  to  that  life,  as  Duke  Fallows 
had  always  said.  She  had  made  him  see  it  by  going 
from  him.  He  would  never  be  the  same,  after  having 
tasted  the  greater  love,  in  which  man  and  woman  are 
one  in  the  spirit  of  service,  having  renounced  the  emblem 
of  it.  And  with  all  her  vision  and  leading — the  glory 
of  it  had  not  come  to  her  as  to  him.  It  had  all  but  killed 
her.  She  had  come  to  him — a  forgotten  purpose,  a 
broken  vessel. 

He  would  love  her  back  to  life.  That  was  his  work 
now.  Everything  must  stop  for  that — even  truth. 
.  .  .  He  halted.  If  he  loved  her  back  to  full  and 
perfect  health  again,  would  she  not  be  the  same  as  she 
had  been?  Would  she  not  take  up  her  Cross  again? 
.  .  .  No,  he  would  not  let  her.  He  would  destroy 
the  results  of  his  work  if  necessary.  He  would  force 
himself  to  forget,  even  in  the  spirit — this  taste  of  the 
mystic  oneness  that  had  come  to  him.  He  would  show 
his  need  for  her  every  hour.  That  would  ma!:e  her 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN         281 

happy — his  leaning  upon  her  word  and  thought  and 
action.  He  would  show  her  his  need  of  her  presence  in 
the  long,  excellent  forenoons,  in  the  very  processes  of 
his  task — and  in  the  evenings,  her  hands,  her  kisses,  her 
step,  her  voice ;  he  would  make  her  see  that  these  were 
his  perfect  essentials. 

"I've  talked  and  written  a  lot  about  how  a  man  should 
live — in  the  past  six  months/'  he  said  grimly.  "I've  got 
to  do  a  bit  of  real  living  in  the  world  now.  God  knows 
1  love  her — as  I  used  to.  That  seemed  enough  then!" 

He  looked  up  from  her  face.  The  ghost  of  day  had 
come  softly  to  the  South.  He  arose,  took  the  lamp 
across  the  room  and  blew  it  out.  Then  he  opened  the 
door.  The  mingled  night  and  dawn  came  in,  a  cool  dim 
ness,  but  the  rain  had  ceased.  He  replenished  the  fire, 
left  the  door  open,  and  returned  to  her.  She  had  be 
come  quiet  since  the  lamp  had  been  taken  away.  .  .  . 
A  sense  of  the  man  and  woman  together,  and  of  her 
strength  returning  crept  upon  him.  He  welcomed  it, 
though  the  deeps  cried  out. 

"When  you  are  yourself,  you  will  want  to  go  away 
again — the  long,  blinding  ways  of  the  sun,"  he  whis 
pered.  "But  I  will  say,  T  cannot  spare  you,  Betty  Berry. 
This  is  the  place  for  two  to  be.  We  will  begin 
again " 

His  thought  of  what  she  would  answer  brought  back 
to  mind  the  play,  Compassion,  and  the  Book  of  John 
Morning.  .  .  .  He  smiled.  He  had  almost  forgot 
ten.  Night  before  last,  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  act, 
he  had  left  the  Markheim.  He  had  given  way  suddenly 
to  the  thought  that  had  pulled  at  him  all  day — to  take  the 
train  to  Betty  Berry  that  night.  .  .  .  The  play  had 
seemed  good.  Even  to  him  there  had  been  moments  of 
thrilling  joy.  It  had  been  surprisingly  different,  sitting 
in  front  with  the  audience,  from  the  rehearsals.  Of  yes 
terday's  notices  he  had  not  seen  a  single  one.  It  was  a 
far  thought  to  him  even  now  of  the  play's  failure,  but  if 


282  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

it  did  fail,  how  easy  to  say  to  Betty  Berry,  "You  see,  how 
mad  I  was  alone — how  mad  in  my  exaltation — how  terri 
bly  out  of  tune?  I  needed  you  here.  I  need  you 
now 

Then  he  thought  of  the  bigger  thing — the  Book. 
There  wasn't  a  chance  for  that  to  fail.  It  would  find  its 
own.  What  would  he  say  about  that?  .  .  .  He 
would  say,  "I  love  you,  Betty  Berry.  It  was  loving  you 
that  made  the  book.  And  when  it  was  done — how  I 
longed  for  you !" 

That  was  true — true  now.  .  .  .  He  kissed  her 
shut  eyelids.  There  was  blessedness  in  her  being  here — • 
even  shattered  and  so  close  to  death — blessedness  and  a 
dreadful  fear.  That  fear  was  ever  winging  around,  but 
did  not  come  home  to  him  and  fold  its  wings.  He  was 
not  himself.  .  .  .  "My  God!"  he  cried  out,  "what 
folds  upon  folds  and  phases  upon  phases  of  experience 

a  man  must  pass  to  learn  to  live " 

For  an  instant  it  all  came  back — that  taste  of  the  open 
road  and  larger  dimension  of  man — the  listening,  the 
labor,  the  sharpened  senses,  scant  diet,  tireless  service, 
'the  great  companions' — love  of  the  world  and  unfailing 
compassion.  ...  It  was  as  they  had  said.  He  had 
belonged  everywhere  but  in  a  woman's  arms.  .  .  . 

It  came  clear  as  a  vision,  and  he  put  it  from  him  as 
an  evil  thing — and  all  the  voices.  The  red  dawn  was 
staring  into  his  eyes,  and  afar  off  a  horse  nickered.  He 
held  his  hands  against  the  light,  as  if  to  destroy  it. 

"I  have  said  it  in  the  Book,  'We  have  all  eternity  to 
play  in,'  and  if  that  is  not  a  lie — this  Call  will  come  to 
me  again !" 

And  this  was  his  renunciation. 

Her  stillness  troubled  him. 

"I  am  your  lover,"  he  whispered.  "I  will  not  let  you 
go,  Betty  Berry.  Don't  you  hear — I  love  you?" 

He  lifted  her,  walked  to  and  fro  between  the  fire  and 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN          283 

the  cot.  She  was  so  very  little.  .  .  .  The  day  came 
up  with  a  mystic  shining,  and  the  warmth  returned. 
These  were  the  first  hours  of  that  fleeting  Indian  sum 
mer,  the  year's  illumination — the  serene  and  conscious 
death  of  Summer.  .  .  .  The  door  was  wide  open  to 
the  light.  .  .  .  Morning  put  down  his  burden,  but 
could  not  be  still.  He  brought  water  and  scrubbed  the 
floor  and  door-step.  The  wood  shone  white  as  it  dried 
— white  as  the  square  table  which  was  an  attraction  of 
daylight.  He  tossed  the  water  away  down  the  hollow, 
drew  more  and  washed  as  the  countrymen  do,  lifting 
handfuls  to  his  head.  Then  he  brought  basin,  soap,  and 
towels — bathed  her  face  and  hands,  afterward  carrying 
her  forth  to  the  sunlight.  The  thin  shade  of  the  elms 
was  far  down  the  meadow,  for  the  day  was  not  high. 

"I  love  you,  Betty  Berry,"  he  continued  to  repeat,  as 
he  turned  again  and  again  to  the  cot.  There  was  an 
hypnotic  effect  in  the  words ;  and  there  was  a  certain 
numbed  surface  in  his  brain  that  refused  to  cope  with 
the  immediate  stresses  in  the  room. 

Jethro  came  early,  and  was  not  content  to  leave  the 
mail  at  the  box.  He  brought  letters,  a  paper,  and  a  large 
package.  Jethro  looked  at  the  face  on  the  cot  and  at  the 
bare-headed  man.  Words  failed  him  to  whom  words 
were  so  easy.  He  ventured  to  mention  the  name  of  a 
doctor,  and  was  answered  furiously: 

"I  am  the  doctor." 

Jethro  lingered.  Morning  turned  suddenly  to  look  at 
the  cot,  and  it  seemed  to  the  carrier  that  his  eyes  would 
have  frightened  away  death.  .  .  .  Morning  caught 
him  by  the  shoulders  : 

"You're  a  good  man,  Jethro,"  he  said  hastily. 
"When  I  think  of  that  fur  robe — it  seems  as  if  I've  got 
to  do  something  for  you  with  my  hands." 

The  carrier  went  his  wray. 

This  he  found  in  the  newspaper — a  "follow"  para- 


284  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

graph  apparently  to  the  dramatic  notice  of  the  day  be 
fore: 

"The    second    performance    of    Compassion    last 
night  to  a  fairly  rilled  house  is  interesting  in  its  rela 
tion  to  the  fear  frankly  expressed  in  this  column  yes 
terday,  to  the  effect  that  Compassion  is  too  good  a 
play  to  get  on  well.    The  fear  was  well  founded  upon 
experience ;  and  yet  we  may  have  before  us  an  ex 
ception — a  quality  of  excellence  that  will  not  be  sub 
dued.     It  is  too  much  to  hope  for,  that  at  any  other 
time  this  season  we  will  be  equally  glad  to  find  our 
fear  for  a  play's  future  ill-founded." 
Morning  had  not  known  of  the  doubt ;  and  this  was 
the  rise  of  the  tide  again  from  the  doubt.     .     .     .     He 
glanced  at  the  package.     There  was  a  spreading  cold  in 
his  vitals.    It  was  from  the  publisher  he  had  chosen — the 
Book  of  John  Morning  returned. 

He  was  hostile  for  an  instant — an  old  vindictive  self 
resenting  this  touch  upon  his  gift  of  self-revelation. 
The  protecting  thought  followed  quickly  that  the  book 
was  in  no  way  changed  by  this  accident  of  encountering 
the  wrong  publisher.  The  really  important  part  of  the 
incident  followed  these  insignificant  thoughts :  Above  all 
things,  this  letter  would  help  to  prove  to  Betty  Berry  his 
need  for  her.  He  would  not  send  it  out  again  at  once. 
This  refusal  would  weigh  more  than  anything  he  could 
say,  to  prove  that  loneliness  had  been  too  much,  too 
strong  for  him — that  it  had  thrown  his  work  out  of 
reality,  instead  of  into  it.  ...  He  was  bending  over 
her.  A  step  at  the  door,  and  he  turned  to  find  Helen 
Quiston  there. 


SHE  entered  and  went  to  the  cot,  without  words,  but 
pressed  his  hand  as  she  passed.     .     .     . 
"You  were  there — and  you  let  her  get  so  low  as 
this." 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN          285 

Helen  turned  to  search  his  face.     "Yes,"  she  said. 

"Who  is  this — Guardian?'' 

"Some  angel  that  came  to  her,  I  think." 

"He  seems  very  real  to  her " 

"Angels  are  real." 

''Angels  do  not  make  saints  suffer " 

"On  the  contrary,  that  appears  to  be  the  life-business 
of  saints " 

"She  will  never  go  back  to  that !"  he  said  with  low 
vehemence. 

Helen  regarded  her  old  comrade  for  a  moment,  kissed 
her  reverently,  and  then  turned  to  the  man. 

"You  poor  boy,"  she  said. 

There  was  something  cold  and  rock-like  about  this 
slave  of  the  future,  looking  over  and  beyond  the  immi 
nent  tragedy.  He  was  helpless,  maddened.  .  .  . 

"She  always  said  you  loved  her — that  you  were  the 
one  woman  absolutely  true.  How  could  you  let  her  de 
stroy  herself?" 

"I  knew  her  before  you  came,  and  loved  her.  I  gave 
her  my  house.  I  waited  upon  her  night  and  morning. 
I  love  Betty  Berry.  You  are  torn  and  tortured,  but  you 
will  see " 

"She    will    not    be    away    from    me    again!     . 
Bah  !  what  is  work — to  this  ?" 

Helen  smiled.  "Do  you  think  she  would  have  come 
if  she  had  been  the  real  Betty  Berry?" 

"Do  you  think  I  would  have  been  duped — had  I 
been  the  real  John  Morning?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  a  man  is  mad  when  he  is  doing  a  book.  He 
may  call  it  happiness,  but  it  is  a  kind  of  devil's  madness. 
He  is  open  for  anything  to  rush  in.  ...  I  am  a 
common  man.  I  do  not  belong  to  that  visionary 
thing " 

"You  are  caught  in  your  emotions.  I  know  your 
work " 


286  DOWN    AMONG    MEN 

He  drew  her  to  the  door,  saying  excitedly: 

"Compassion  threatens  to  fail.  My  book  has  come 
back,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "Look  at  this " 

He  gave  her  the  publisher's  letter. 

"Your  play  has  not  failed,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "And 
this — why,  this  is  just  a  bit  of  the  world.  John  Morning 
at  thirty-three — talks  of  failure.  Let  us  talk  over  this 
day,  when  you  are  fifty-three.  .  .  .  What  an  empty 
victory  for  her — if  you  failed  now " 

She  was  looking  back  at  the  cot.  Morning  whispered 
his  reiteration: 

"I  love  her.  I  shall  have  her  here.  I  shall  make  her 
see  that  I  love  her.  That  is  my  service.  You  are  all 
mad  conspirators  against  us.  We  are  man  and  woman. 
Our  world  is  each  other.  She  shall  see  and  believe  this 
— if  I  write  drivel " 

Helen  did  not  seem  quite  to  hear  him.  She 
drew  away  from  him  as  if  called  in  a  trance  to 
the  bedside. 

"My  little  dearest — oh,  Betty  Berry — you  have  done 
so  well.  You  have  paid  the  price  for  a  World-Man " 

Morning  followed  her.  .  .  .  Betty's  eyes  were 
opened — fixed  upon  Helen  Quiston. 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  questioned  wonderingly. 

"God  love  you,  Betty.  I  said  you  had  paid  the  price 
for  a  World-Man— 

She  raised  on  her  elbow  alone,  her  eyes  now  looking 
beyond  the  woman  to  Morning. 

"He  is  there,"  she  whispered.  "He  is  there.  He  has 
come." 

Her  hand  stretched  toward  him,  and  sank  slowly  to 
his  brow  as  he  knelt. 

"My  love,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "It  is  all  right.  I  see 
it  all  once  more.  It  is  so  good  and  right — just  as  your 
Guardian  told  me.  ...  It  was  only  the  birth-pangs 
I  suffered.  They  were  hard.  .  .  .  Birth  is  hard, 
but  death  is  easy.  Don't  you  see,  Helen,  he  was  my  little 


THE    BARE-HEADED    MAN          287 

baby?  .  .  .  Oh,  you  came  so  hard,  John  Morning — 
and,  oh,  I  love  you  so !" 

He  saw  the  fact  of  her  passing,  but  the  deeper  reali 
zation  was  slow.  It  was  much  to  him,  for  the  instant, 
that  she  spoke  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"I  love  you,  Betty  Berry,"  he  said,  his  voice  lifting. 
"I  love  you  as  a  saint,  as  a  mother — as  a  child!" 

"But  not  as  a  woman,"  she  whispered. 


THE   END. 


I/It 


SEP 


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V*  *;."mAj!y 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


PS  ComfQrt_-?__ 
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